And it does. On every song. All the time. No contest, no match - you win.
The only case of a non-skipping CD I’ve heard here was when they played Keane’s “Hopes & Fears” album from beginning to end, twice. And it never skipped once on that disc.
Wait. Where am I? I’m at the European Cafe. But I thought you bought an espresso machine?
::shame::
You know it’s been a long day at work when:
You are heading for a destination and come to a doorway with a closed door. You begin to curl your hand to grasp the round handle and you reach the door. Your body naturally continues forward because everyone’s body is used to continuing its movement upon reaching a doorway.
However, you don’t open the door and instead walk right into it, while your hand crumples into the hardwood goodness. In your weakened stupor you realize this door doesn’t have a round doorknob; in fact, it has no doorknob and only requires a pedestrian to gently push on it to open.
Your spirit is not fully crushed and you are determined to get to your destination. “Evasive action!” your mind exclaims, although the exclamation is masked by the intense mental weariness.
Now that your body has recovered from the brief lapse and bump into the door, you lean your limp body into the door. Allowing gravity to create enough horizontal forces, the door opens easily; however, this leaves you stumbling into the next room.
After crossing that plateau-of-a-threshold and recovering your misplaced steps, you realized that you walked into the wrong room. “This is not the lab,” you think, “this is a bathroom.”
With my reading pace, as feverish as it has become, I’ve been limiting my comments on the literature I’ve launched head-long into. I will recap what I have pranced, strolled, and, sometimes, trudged through over the past weeks and months.
Fast Food Nation - This is a fantastic work. I can assure you that it is not politically-sided propaganda, but, rather, it states exactly how presidential administrations have tried to tackle or let loose the fast food industry. There’s near endless ways in which this form of commerce affects our lives - from the food itself and health considerations, to wage control and high job-turnover. When East Germany was open in 1989, the first business to plant itself behind the destroyed wall was… you guessed it… McDonald’s.
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - I’ve been weary about looking into modern fiction - I understand that modern, fiction best-sellers are on the list for a reason, but I’ve been bored to tears by certain praised works that graced The New York Times’ best-seller list. However, Curious Incident is captivating. Told by a child who knows no emotion, can’t understand figurative language, and who is frightened to death by other people touching him, this novel will be a burden to rip from your hands after you’ve picked it up. The scary thing is, however, that I can relate to so many of this kid’s syndromes. He even wets the bed; err… I mean, I can relate to some of his syndromes.
To Engineer is Human - Granted, it was written in the 80s, but this book really takes a prejudiced stand against technology in engineering, almost fearing its inclusion. Not to say the entire book is fear-laden, but Petroski evidently was cautious of engineering efforts being overrun by computers. Overall, it’s a respectable piece to get through; the author covers many aspects of how failure in engineering designs contributes generously to future design attempts. It’s kind of bland, though; I have a feeling this is one of those engineers who coveted his slide-rule to the very last moment before it was torn from his blood-sweaty hands.
The Map that Changed the World - Exploring the geology of England was never so fascinating. Told more as a legend instead of a biography, this book covers the life of William Smith and his ceaseless efforts to beat back the religious dogmas of his time. When he had scientific proof that the Earth was millions (or more) years old, religious leaders and scholars continued to impress that the world and all within was created exactly at 9 am on October 23, 4004 B.C., a Monday, no less. I like Simon Winchester’s books, and I truly enjoyed this one.
Inferno - There are many, many translations of this book, but I was sure to the link the specific one I read. Oh, wow! this book is fantastic. I think I read it all in just a few days. But at times, I had to put it down, because it became too real, too frightening, and too provoking. Dante travels to Hell, with the aid of Virgil, and what Danta sees changes everything about his character. As you enter each dank and horrible ring of Hell with Dante, you will under the ghastly fear that causes him to faint on several occasions; this book is dreadfully magnificent, even if you have no reverence for the divine.
Invisible Man - Believe me, I gave this book a shot. A real chance, not some phony humoring. After reading one-quarter of it, I had to put it down. In my opinion, the writing was so banal and manufactured that I came to the point at which I was forcing myself to pick it up to plow through a few more pages. Yes, there was a decent plot, but I was having to escape the darts and arrows of never-ending metaphors and similes. You’d think Ellison had just found out about this wonderful thing called “figurative language” - nearly every description requires some fantastical hyperbole to go along with it. Ugh, I did not want to drown in superfluous writing, so I backed out. Oh well.
The Grapes of Wrath - I was forced to read this for high school AP English. At that point, I had no appreciation for literature, although throughout the year, books would grow on me (this was also the year I fell in love with the writing of Krakauer). My second time, however, and I ardently favored it. Steinbeck was brilliant. His jumps from pure dialogue to narration are perfect. I would dare say that the Depression era has no better piece of literature depicting the suffering of agricultural Americans than Grapes of Wrath. Hard-working “folk” built America, and let’s hope that will not be an endangered species as generations move on.
I hope your taste for literature (aka knowledge, aka power) is not satiated by my summaries and opinions. Vadate! Legite!
After being inspired by the seasonal blossoms all around, I planted my beloved marigolds tonight. My stint as a groundkeeper last summer taught me… umm.. it taught me about.. nature… and how nature… loves us. So, in honor of nature loving me, I planted some marigold seeds I recovered from the withering plants of last fall. I scattered them randomly in open areas I could locate, hoping they’ll bloom in their time and grant me glorious arrays of maroon and orange every morning before my commute.
It’s great to see these bright colors once again. I look forward to this arrival every year. However, there is a side effect to this springtime wonder and amazement.
I would assume that all of the species of animals are getting rough and rowdy this time of year as well; I really don’t have to assume, it’s the annual truth. Rabbits makin’ bunnies; cows makin’ calves; chickens makin’ the first course of a Southern breakfast. But what happens to those animals that have reached their last baby-makin’ prime? You’d be surprised to know that I have the answer.
It’s more apparent in this rural community of Lynchburg, and the surrounding areas, but animals that finish their last heat do the humanly unthinkable.
So imagine you’re driving home during dusk and are enjoying your Sting & The Police Best Of album, when all of a sudden a deer (Doh! A deer! A female deer!) steps out in front of your car as the eye that faces you glows with a fierce outrage for its mid-life crisis. You swerve in hopes to not ruin the newly-washed body of your coupe, but NO! That deer leaps into your swerving path and CRUNCH! SPLAT! It’s time for another car wash, after a visit to the auto mechanic, mind you.
Animals that reach their prime during this fabulous spring season commit suicide in, possibly, one of the most unflattering ways. And central and southwest Virginia is crawling with unnamed suicide victims; every road has a story to tell, not to mention the guts & glory.
I, personally, have had close encounters with distraught deer, raccoons, opossums, and squirrels, while the Jetta has actually sent one over-stressed member of the deer population airborne for a solid ten yards. It’s a shame that these precious lives end up this way, but nature always finds a way to return to equilibrium.
Equilibrium, eh? I suppose that’s why we get showered down with acid rain when we keep screwing around with the atmosphere.
This is a moment when I question everything. I become suggestive, but hint only to tease you, as if you had any idea of what is going on in my pool of thoughts. It’s common, in a time like this, for me to reflect on the past and call forth some memory that is usually subdued and locked away. Normally, I imprison those memories and times, because that’s what productive members of our society do. Right?
Usually, these cases begin with elation - something near-perfect happens. But a malign cell sneaks into the set, and captures the limelight for a second. A Flash. Evil; Appearance; Disappearance. The murderous thing requires only an instantaneous recognition, no acceptance speech required. For it’s not the thing that harms me, but rather my analyzation of it. No one event does a person total harm, but their dwelling on the disaster can ruin them. Ruin them to the grave.
So, what was once a beautiful drive home, wind in my face and granting me fresh breaths, becomes… no, is manipulated into a tortured space shuttle launch. It’s going to be glorious, folks! And BAM! The sky then rains debris, debris that I think over. I think them over until I am amongst the debris and sorting through each piece, each mite. There is no real use to this recovery mode of mine, it actually makes me nauseous, very. There’s a wretched piece of the once-near-perfect time; it’s no longer worth considering during an eviction. And that polar representation makes me sick to my stomach.
It’s not the event that harms me, but rather my assessment of the event. Not the lightning that maims, but the fact that my unfortunate body is mainly composed of electricity-conductive water.
These moments begin to subside, however. A strange apathy overwhelms me; very strange, indeed, because I am not normally apathetic to anything. A disastrous apathy. I forget the significance of the good event and find that “what happens, happens, and there’s nothing to do” - I become apathetic.
And here is where the moment ends. I write about it. I’m still apathetic, but cautiously so. Kind of similar to being forced to attend a town meeting for a government class and being told to remember what you hear for an upcoming test - you hate that you are where you are, but there’s nothing to do about it, and you simply must try to focus on the present.
It’s very quiet here. Completely quiet, except for the mind-numbing drone of the television far away. Some times, to calm myself from these moments, I will recite Keats’ “When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be”. I don’t recite it because it ends in redemption, not at all! It shows us that our problems exist and cannot be discarded for a fairy-eyed view of the world. This is how I feel - I fear that I may cease to be
“…Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain…”
I hear a great variety of the local radio stations as I walk around the facilities at work, even the lesser-powered stations that celebrate a five hundred watt tower with the tip of a champagne glass. While one of these radio waves crossed the path of my ears, I overheard an ad campaign by Lance. The slogan goes exactly like this: “Lance sandwich crackers and cookies; big enough to keep hunger at bay, small enough to keep in your pants.”
This marketing leap is something I dwelled over for a long time. The only significant consumer pull I could find would be the fact that Americans are in the middle of a health frenzy, notably begun by the low-carb-everything of 2004, and perhaps they are looking for a better snack food to carry around in their tight, chinos. However, one of the ads, after shooting down regular candy bars, takes a shot at energy bars by claiming “let the French have their dough” while Americans apparently are truly being fed on high-calorie Lance sandwich crackers … ?
It’s also highly counter-productive seeing how most people don’t carry around small items in pants anymore; accessory items for toting goods are becoming more prevalent in all areas, as far as I have been noticing. Maybe they were going for a good laugh… or a good rhyme. Maybe it was a shot-in-the-dark and a few grandiose marketing gurus will end up being shown their way out the door.
I hope so. The only way I could shower myself from that distraught mindset that those ridiculous ads placed in my head was to wash the Jetta. Then I heard there is a forecast for thunderstorms on Thursday.
And now I’m counter-productive!