As Newsy As Ever

Hello, all. I’m back. The integral cogs and gears that keep me chugging along are the same:

• I’m still a journalism major at Rowan University. Being the ambitious person that I am, I’m also pursuing a psychology minor and honors concentration. Phew!
• The Whit, the campus’s weekly, still owns my life. But I wouldn’t be there if I didn’t love it lots and loathe it only sometimes, when deadlines are looming.
• I still knit and crochet. Seeing as the holiday season is already upon us, I’ll be doing much of both to churn out inexpensive but charming gifts for friends and family.
• I love to write.

So, what’s new? Surely, you’re thinking, a great expanse of time hasn’t elapsed without life throwing me a few curve balls. Well, it hasn’t.

I’m poised to take over as head honcho at The Whit and very excited at the prospect of having three semesters with which to reign over the newspaper’s staff.

Small, but interesting fact — I might wind up being the first black editor in chief of The Whit. That’s right, pen me into the sidebar of a history book somewhere. Add my picture to the visitor’s pamphlet that’s handed out to fledgling journalism students. Or simply nod along and allow me to swell with a little bit of pride. If only for a fleeting moment.

I’ll also be interning at the Courier-Post next semester. As such, I’ll be joining the ranks of college students everywhere that tepidly rejoice at the opportunity to work in the field of their choice and be paid in “experience.”

However, I’ve spoken with peers that interned with the Courier-Post in the past and they had nothing but inspiring remarks concerning their time in the newsroom.

In short, the grizzled veterans will scrutinize my writing, dismantle it, tinker with the pieces and help me put it back together in a way that’s far more streamlined. Clips of the articles I write for them will duly follow.

Right now, I’m off to tend to the pile of work that’s been making these last few weeks of the semester hectic. Fare thee well.

 

This Isn’t Lemonade, Its Ambrosia!

After my previous post I feel I owe it to whomever takes the time to read this to say that its starting to feel like life is trying to compensate me for the family troubles. Also, writing that previous post did seem to do me a world of good as far as putting things in perspective goes. I've had a few talks with my parents and we're all on the same [realistically optimistic] page in regards to the upcoming surgery.

So, what is this ambrosial delicacy I speak of thats come from, really, the sourest of lemons?

Yesterday after driving across town to the bank on my lunch break only to find that it closes at 12 on Saturdays, I remembered that my grocery store has a new PNC kiosk. The teller, who was very friendly by the way, walked me over to the ATM machine and showed me how to cash my own checks using it. Finally! Liberated from inconvenient bank hours!

I also found a lovely knitting pattern for an adorable bag. I plan on buying a bit of fabric from ReproDepot.com so I can line it. I think I'll be putting bamboo handles on it too.

I have to get ready for work, but more later. I have an idea for a good post and I'll kick myself if I don't write it.

 

This may very well be the most important thing I ever do.

I'll be blunt with you since the following has been common knowledge to me and most people that know me for quite some time now. After all, I predict that writing this out in its entirety (up to this point, anyway) will prove cathartic since although most people know of this situation, nobody knows the full extent of it. Respond if you so choose, but by no means feel obligated to forge a bond with me where one did not exist prior to this post. As well-intentioned as your kind words may be, there is little even those closest to me have been able to do to calm my nerves. I am looking for no sympathy, only the calming feeling that I personally derive from starting at the beginning of something and methodically tracing it to the present. So, here goes:

My younger brother (17) has a benign tumor situated directly beneath his brain. It was discovered just over two months ago. Since approximately February he had suffered from sinus problems, frequent nose bleeds and labored breathing. My parents' search for a cure led them first to prescriptions for several allergy medicines, then antibiotics to kill a supposed bacterial infection and a medicated nose spray, and finally a diagnosis from an ENT doctor that limited the problem to two possibilities — in my brothers nose was either a polyp or a tumor. Several x-rays, cat-scans and MRI's later it was finally determined that there was a tumor in my brother's head. At the time it was believed that it was only a very small tumor in his nose, but further analysis proved otherwise.

I was notified of the tumor via an email from my mother. I know now that this was a sign of just how reluctant she'd be to talk about the situation in the future. Although she had notified me of the tumor, it was still unknown whether it was benign or malignant. The biopsy was scheduled for a week after the news was delivered to my Inbox. The next afternoon I hitched a ride home from school with a friend in a desperate effort to cope with the uncertainty surrounding my brother's health. I did little more than arrive home in time for dinner and give my brother a hug early the next morning before he left for school. Early that afternoon I headed back to school no less anxious than I had been the day before.

When the day finally came for the biopsy, it was revealed that although the tumor (at this point believed to be confined to his nasal passage) was benign but actually a small part of a significantly larger tumor located beneathe his brain. The doctor who had examined my brother assured my parents that it could be removed via a surgical procedure and an appointment was made for a return trip to the hospital, located in New York City, to have a consultation with the two surgeons and doctor it would take to complete the procedure — a neurosurgeon (due to the proximity of the tumor to his brain), an anesthesiologist (due to the complicated and often unheard of method they will be using to "color" the tumor tissue) and a regular surgeon.

Although I am sure the procedure was described to my parents and brother in a manner that was far more vivid, I was told enough to provide a basic outline of what will happen. My brother will need to be at the hospital at least two days prior to the actual surgery to have a small tube inserted just below his abdomen and threaded through his torso to the location of the tumor. Through the tube will travel small particles that will, for lack of a better word, colorize the tumor. This, as I have been told, is to make the jobs of the surgeon and neurosurgeon easier. For this surgery to be a success, no tissue from the tumor can be left behind. On the day off the surgery, incisions will be made both on the inside of his upper lip and an inch below his hairline from his forehead to just before his right ear. This, I am told, is being done to minimize facial scarring and disfiguration. From this point on I can only assume that the next step in the surgical process is to physically remove the tumor itself without damaging any brain tissue.

The most severe risk that my brother faces during surgery is a stroke. Outside of the OR, the doctors have told us that if left undiscovered the tumor could have caused facial disfiguration and, at worst, eventually made him blind and/or deaf. Outside of these predictions, the doctors were hardpressed to specifically identify what other neurological damage he would have potentially suffered. My mother, though it is hard to judge the accuracy of her claim, believes it may have been present since he was in 1st grade and began to suffer from very severe migraines.

The entire procedure is scheduled for approximately a month from now. The surgery itself will take an estimated six hours and my brother will have to remain in the ICU for a week. Besides the tests that will need to be done to ensure that the surgery was a complete success, he will not be able to move from the waist down. The aforementioned tube that will be used to "colorize" the tumor will be inserted where the risk of the sutures tearing and the resulting wound reopening is very high and can only be taken care off by keeping him in a bed for a week. Should the wound reopen, the worst case scenario is that my brother bleeds to death.

Needless to say, this has been the cause of much anxiety and concern among our family. Although my brother seems to view his surgery optimistically and even jokes about having to shave his head to hide the bald patch that'll be left over because of the incision, he has noticeably lost weight. He has also dealt with nausea, loss of appetite, dizziness and uncharacteristic fatigue. Although just the thought causes me to panic, it is hard to postulate that these are not related to the presence of the tumor.

The strain most recently swelled last weekend. It was last week that my brother had begun to deal with the aforementioned symptoms, but they had yet to be brought to my attention. Either because I had been asleep when he felt nauseous and dizzy early in the morning before school, or at work on the nights when he felt fatigued and had no appetite, I had no knowledge of what had been happening. My mother witnessed most of this firsthand but did not bring it to my attention. Unawares of these new developments I proposed plans for me to take a trip (approx. 2 hours away) to visit my former roommate and another college friend for the weekend. My parents refused my request and accused me of being selfish but did not explain further. On Saturday I was invited to attend a bbq at a friend's house 45 minutes away and received consent from my father to attend on the condition that I be home by noon on Sunday. On my way out of the house I noticed my mother seemed deeply upset and gently asked why. The situation quickly escalated and she eventually screamed that my brother could die in July and that it was selfish of me to make her worry any more than she already was. Clearly, my bbq plans had to be cancelled.

With both of us now crying hysterically, it was finally revealed what kind of week my brother had had. I told my mother that if she had let me know of the new developments earlier I would have taken it upon myself to deem it inappropriate for me to leave for a weekend and would have understood her accusations that I was being selfish. I encouraged her to call the hospital, but unfortunately I'm almost certain she hasn't. As of right now, she is very reluctant to talk about my brother or the surgery and quite frankly I'm terrified of the torrent of morbid and crippling thoughts that could wind up being screamed in my face once again.

I understand that as much as I love my brother, it is impossible for me to feel the kind of anxiety and concern that my parents must feel. I do not, however, see their morbid fixation on the possibility of him dying as anything that will make the situation any more bearable for them, my brother, or myself and my youngest brother. Unless they have made it a point to keep some details of their consultation with the surgeons from me, there is a very small chance that he will suffer a stroke during surgery. Even then, the stroke would not necessarily be fatal. Based on the information that has been revealed to me, I feel we can all realistically expect my brother to survive the surgery.

However, the anxiety surrounding the situation is monumental. I fear that my parents' reluctance to communicate with the rest of the family and their unrealistic fear that my brother will die has already placed unnecessary strain on all of us. I have resolved to take it upon myself to do everything in my power to force open the lines of communication that I have been raised to cherish and rely on. While I am concerned about my ability to cope with this situation without the ability to communicate with my parents, my primary concern is the eventual affect poor inter-family communication could have upon my brother. He does not need to enter that operating room with any unrealistic notions about his chances of not surviving the procedure, or even worse that despite the reassuring words of the surgeons that my parents do not expect him to. I feel I owe it to my parents to instill within them with the same optimism that we should all — and realistically so — have. I am scared of the degree of responsibility that this means I must take upon myself, but I am exponentially more terrified and horrified of what could happen to my entire family if I do not.

 

Two runs in a week do not a runner make…

however, if I can get in another two runs before the end of the week and then maintain that kind of running schedule — with some yoga, weight lifting and interval push-up/sit-up workouts mixed in for good measure — then I wager I could at least call myself an understudy. The overall goal is to lose the few pounds I put on at school and be in significantly better shape by the end of August.

To help things along, I plan on printing out a copy of the Calorie Counter featured on The Fitness Jumpsite!. Rather than being a food diary that encourages the kind of tedious cataloging of consumed items that sets the stage for obsessive dieting (i.e. – starvation), this Calorie Counter has been crafted a bit differently:

"We'll calculate the number of calories you burn for 222 activities. Fill in your weight and the average amount of time you spend doing an activity. We'll do the math and return an activities page personalized for you. Print the activities page using the print function on your web browser and keep it with your exercise log or tape it on the refrigerator for reference. It's a great reminder of all the activities you can participate in and use for cross-training to stay active and healthy."

The assumption here being that if your weight changes significantly, you should print out a new copy of the list. I'm still looking for someone to do yoga with, although I will warn that if you're at all self-conscious or think you'd be put at unease if required to hold seemingly silly poses while listening to Frou Frou or Enya… its probably not for you.

I could also use someone to life weights with. In fact, I could use some more of my own weights. Thus begins the search for a bargain on a set of weights, because very tight is the budget of this particular college student. On a side note, apparently I woke up this morning in the mood to speak in a way that's vaguely reminiscent of Yoda. Strange.

Time for breakfast, then I'm off to work. I leave you with this, my inspirational photo which I found on Corbis. I used to be in this kind of shape, and hopefully a visualization of my past will help me get back there.

Adieu.

 

“I’m not a stripper, I swear.”

As a cashier who's been dealing with the public from behind a cash register for nearly four years, I can very safely say that customers have certain habits that drive us — cashiers — up the wall. Truth be told, I probably exhibited quite a few of these infuriating habits before my mantra, often for seven hour shifts at a time, became "How may I help you?"

Here are some common customs every customer should drop:

1. Pet names and nick names. If you're a female cashier, you know what its like having men of all ages approach your counter with a smile. If you're cordial, you'll return the smile, albeit usually a half-hearted & impersonal one. Then they call you "honey," "sweetie," "sweetheart," "darling," or any other myriad of names other than the one printed on your name tag (more about those later). Its time to unleash a frown. Most women don't like their significant others to overuse pet names, so you can bet we get a little uppity when complete strangers start using them. Same goes for nick names like "buddy," "champ" or — my personal favorite — "fella" for male cashiers. Chances are that whatever transaction brings you to our counter will be the limit of our interaction. To that end, limit yourselves to "Sir," or "Miss" — and use "Ma'am" sparingly. It makes women of all ages feel uncomfortably old.
2. "Hey, you remember me?" No, chances are we don't. Use your judgment before presuming that a cashier recognizes you if you haven't been at their register in the past 24 hours. If they're having a busy day, this time period may even be shortened to 4 or even 2 hours. Long lines indicate that managers are pressuring cashiers to work faster. Transactions become rushed and remembering faces becomes an impossibility. If its been an appreciable amount of time since your last interraction with a cashier, approach them without raising this question. If you have a query in reference to the last time you were there, and they DO remember you, most will tell you so and use that prior knowledge to help things along. Otherwise, you can safely assume that you were forgotten as soon as you were out of sight.
3. "I know its early, but can you break a hundred?" This, in particular, will apply to smaller businesses and transactions that occur early in the morning. If its before noon and you're entering any kind of business that isn't a major chain — some exceptions apply — do not hand the cashier a hundred or fifty dollar bill for an item costing less than twenty dollars and expect anything less than a scowl as they scrape the bottom of their drawer for proper change. Ways to solve this problem? Carry twenties, its what most of us do and in most cases they're the most convenient bills for a cashier to make change for. Start asking your bank teller to give you smaller bills. THESE are the people that don't mind breaking large bills. As for more money matters…
4. "I have this roll of quarters/dimes/nickels/pennies, will you take that?" Yes, it does all spend the same. No, its not as if you're asking the cashier to personally accept this as payment and then try to find room for it in their purse/pocket/bag. However, there is unfortunately no way for a cashier to know that you're handing them a complete roll of coins without cracking open the roll and counting. You can bet someone else in line will either kill you, us, or both of us when they realize they're waiting for a roll of dimes to be counted. We'd love to just trust you, but we're the ones who have to account for the balance in the drawer at the end of our shift. You can bet we'd be in deep if your roll of quarters was later cracked open to reveal a bunch of Chuckee Cheese tokens. Again, banks are in the business of happily giving you change if and when you need it.
5. Too much information. Polite conversation is definitely a plus if you're the only person in line and your cashier doesn't appear to be in the 9th hour of what was supposed to be a 5 hour shift. However, if — when paying for something over $20 with all singles — your cashier does not want to hear you blurt out, "Don't worry. I'm not a stripper, I swear," as you chuckle and continue to count out the now-suspect bills. Do this and you may be asked to just leave the money on the counter where it can be Lysol-ed until it loses its sleazy/ass-crack/g-string/thong/cleavage aura. Also, please don't complain about or praise your children to a cashier. Empathy is not our forte when we're on the clock. The most we can offer, as usual, is a half-hearted smile that will hopefully indicate "I am not being paid to hear about your personal life. Unless you want to pay me like you do your shrink, go talk to him/her. NEXT!"
6. Cell phones. Unless you're about to undertake a transaction that can be completed in its entirety without communication, GET OFF THE CELL PHONE. Cashiers do not understand your impromptu sign language. They do not appreciate your distracted "Just a moment," hand gestures or complete disregard. Although they are paid to help you, they appreciate it if you approach the register/counter ready to be helped. If you need to finish your conversation, step aside. As a side note, those hands free ear buds count too. In fact, if we can't see them and you say something perplexing to seemingly no one be ready for brows to be furrowed and awkward questions to be asked. Better yet, avoid these situations completely.
7. Cooties. Unless you've just watched a cashier pick a particularly heinous wedgie, use their palm as a tissue, finish eating a plate of spare ribs or doing something else that makes their hands unsavory… simply hand them the money. In most cases the worst thing they've just touched is, fleetingly, the hand of the person that was standing in line in front of you. Also, as if playing the cootie game wasn't enough — do not toss money and/or credit cards onto the counter. It may seem harmless but it comes across as arrogant, disrespectful and rude. Should your toss be so powerful as to send your projectile flying onto the floor, you have just become Ta monumental asshole. Such acts of douchbaggery, jerkoffism and prickation are not to be tolerated. You should be so lucky as to then walk, not limp or flee with a bloody nose, away from the counter in nothing less severe than mindnumbing shame.
8. "I know its against store/company policy, but…" No. That's when most cashiers would like to cut this train of thought off at. In fact, some of us can see your kind doing that impatient I-need-a-favor shuffle while you're waiting in line. You all have a rebelious stench about you. If you know your request will violate store/company policy then you also already know the answer to the question. An alternative to this is calmly explaining your situation and hoping your plight isn't completely horse shit. Most sales associates have hearts. And most will make small and occasional exceptions to policy in the interest of good customer service. However, allow us to be the judges of that. We're the ones who have to answer for our actions, not you.

As if its not obvious, I just got off work a little while ago. I planned on making this a nice even list of 10 qualms, but exhaustion over powers me. Two more to come tomorrow, when I've got the day off.

In the mean time, feel free to offer your own anecdotes about having to deal with an often rude and cantankerous bunch of customers. I'd love to hear them.

 

Who’s Your Babka?

This coming Sunday I'm hoping to make a babka.

Before you ask (from http://www.answers.com)…

bab·ka (bäb'kə)
n.A coffee cake flavored with orange rind, rum, almonds, and raisins.

[Polish, diminutive of baba, old woman.]

My Polish grandmother — full of warmth, kindess, affection, storytales and herbal tea remedies to all modern ailments — used to find a way to always be pulling one of these out of her oven as my brothers and I squeezed through the door of the quaint gray house they owned in South Plainfield. Our ultimate destination was the front porch where they kept two pianos, an organ and a box of old toys that had once been my mother's. However, far be it from us to pass up an almost-too-warm-to-eat slice of babka covered in a thin layer of jam and served with a tall cup of whatever herbal tea she deemed fit.

I couldn't tell you what we were drinking. Nobody could. She kept all the dried leaves in cloudy, unmarked jars on her counter. She always knew how to make the tea just right — steeped with an eye on the time and sweetened gently with honey — so that we, being typical children, didn't try to empty her sugar bowl in attempts to make it resemble Kool-Aid. Her only answers to inqueries about the teas were, "Don't worry. Is good. You drink now." She always placed a creased but soft hand on your shoulder when she sensed resistance to her teas. Aided by the aroma wafting from the steaming mug she had just set before you, I defy both my brothers to tell me they could have ever turned her down.

My father often affectionately referred to her, his mother-in-law, as the witch doctor. I never saw him turn down the magic potions or mysterious mixtures she'd make special trips to our house to brew. She'd let herself into the house and not make her presence known immediately. It wasn't until she was rounding the corner from the kitchen in her slow but determined shuffle-step with a steaming cup of "Is good," magic that my father would sit up from where he had been resting and smile.

After placing the cup in his somewhat reluctant hands she'd take up residence in a recliner next to the sofa, put up her feet and quiety use her presence to will the steaming liquid from the cup and into his mouth. That tea wasn't going to do a damn bit of "Is good," if it didn't find its way down my father's throat. Anna Zniecki loved with a heart of gold and pushed her homegrown meds with an iron fist.

It was always quietly amusing to watch this take place because it was well known that my mother's parents had initially been resistant to her intention to marry a black man. The wedding picture that sat in the living room featured my father's side of the family, but not my mother's. In fact, pictures from their wedding are scarce in our photo albums. Pictures that featured my father and his in-laws didn't surface until captions signalled things like — "Stacy's first Christmas," "Stacy's second birthday," or "Stacy at the park." I'm strangely honored — though of course take no personal responsibility — to have been the first of three babies that brought my mother and her new husband back into the hearts of my grandparents.

Instead of wedding pictures, there's an entire two albums devoted to the cross-country trip that my parents took to Colorado as their impromptu honeymoon. Just a white woman with a grin that seemed to glow, a black man with an adventurous twinkle in his eye — both weary from long roads — traveling in a rust colored Ford van. Looking at those pictures always made me and my brothers marvel that they ever found it in their hearts to return to New Jersey. After all, what did the east coast have that couldn't be found in the beautiful nothingness that the skies in Colorado seemed to be boldly spun of?

Family.

And thank goodness they found their way back, otherwise I may have grown up a stranger to the wonders a Polish woman can do with her worn hands, a morning's worth of careful baking and the kind of timing that — to me — always felt like a sign of unconditional love.

Just in case you too now crave a warm loaf of babka with apricot jam…

Polish Babka Bread

Ingredients

• One cup milk
• 1/4 cup water
• 1/2 cup butter
• 3 cups flour
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 package dry yeast
• 2 eggs
• 1 cup of golden raisins

Cooking Instructions

Measure
milk, water, and butter into a saucepan and heat just briefly. In a
large bowl stir together 3 cups flour, sugar, salt, and dry yeast. With
a wooden spoon, blend in milk mixture beating well. Beat eggs and add
to mixture. Add raisins. Gradually beat in enough additional flour to
create a dough that can be handled. Bowl will tend to clean itself as
you stir when a sufficient amount of flour has been added.Turn dough out on floured surface. Knead until smooth and and elastic.
Place in greased bowl. Turn once. Cover. Let rise until doubled. Then
punch down and knead briefly. Transfer to greased pan. Let rise to
double size. Bake 40 minutes or so until light tan in color; take a
beaten egg and brush egg over bread. Bake a few minutes more until
golden.

 

A Cure For My Er-blog-tile Dysfunction?

I don't know what it is, but as far as posts go, I just haven't been able to get it up.

To continue my pre-established metaphor, I can tell you I've dealt with the following as of late:

• An imagined & overwhelming pressure to perform
• Anxiety over the issue of reaching my climax too soon
• A lack of blog-drive
• General shyness
• Occasional disinterest and laziness
• "Headaches"

So, much like the typical man who's tired of feeling defeated in his own bedroom and unwilling to pay for the necessary therapy to reach the root of the problem, I've found a new mistress. Yes, your Afro Deity is bumpin' beautiful with WordPress now.

 

Whew, talk about a hiatus!

I haven’t got much to say in defense of the several month-long break I took from blogging. The whole concept of Undergraduate Musings — sober and, for the most part, intelligent thoughts from a college student as she actually makes her way through college — was reasonable enough. However, this past semester got the better of me.

1. For starters, I really put my working-under-pressure skills to the test. I took a Radical Politics course this semester as one of my Honors Program requirements with Prof. Ieva Zake. The course description promised a lot:
   

   “The course provides an in-depth look into selected revolutionary/radical ideologies of the 19^th and 20^th centuries. Geographically the course covers various regions such as Europe, the United States, Latin America, Russia, China and Africa. The course discusses the intellectual roots of revolutionary ideas; the internal dynamic of radical political movements; and the ways revolutionary ideologies can serve to build radical states. The course will analyze such ideologies as anarchism, Marxism, various forms of Leninism including Maoism, Castroism and African socialism, Fascism, Nazism, radical feminism, environmentalism and anti-globalism. The course is built on an interdisciplinary perspective that incorporates sociology, history and political science.”

   and I went in with sincerest hopes that the once-a-week, two and a half hour course would deliver on at least some of what it claimed to include. Prof. Zake, as full of wit, whimsy and energy as she was knowledge, provided just the right mixture of lecture and discussion to keep the abnormally long class from tiring all of us out. In fact, some weeks we all lost track of time and had to be kicked out of the room by the professor that needed it after our class.

   The only drawback to her class, was the way which she assigned and collected homework. Each week we had a hefty (sometimes whole books) amount of reading to complete before the next class. Due by 10 a.m. the day of class — emailed to her — were response papers. My first, and in retrospect worst, paper was the only one that I managed to finish more than a day before it was due. The rest were written, in their entirety, 2 hours ahead of deadline before I grabbed my things and sprinted to my 9:25 a.m. physics class.

   After finding that these rushed papers were the kind that got me 4/4 grades… I stuck to the pattern. And as a consequence, began to do the same with more and more assignments. Before you caution me that this was all my doing and in no part the fault of professor, allow me to say this: I know. I also know that its probably a good sign that I can not only handle deadlines tighter than Nun’s panties, but that I’m starting to like them. (Remember, journalism major that’s in it for the love of the field?) In comparison, my “rushed” writing shows signs of more creativity, focus and thought. I guess if you give me too much time to think, I just stop thinking and become entrenched in my hatred for the blinking cursor and blank screen. Either way, its meant much less time for relaxation and reflection.

2. I became reacquainted with the Rowan University party scene. Without going into lengthy descriptions that would inevitably involve the kinds of details that most of you are unaccustomed to hearing from me… I’ll say that I found a group of people that make going to frat houses tolerable and that there were a few people in particular that made the entire experience utterly enjoyable and worthwhile. In short: nerds need lovin’ too and I certainly got my fill.
3. My roommate and I became the kind of friends that, when the other isn’t otherwise busy, talk endlessly about nothing in particular and love it like its the most meaningful thing in the world. As long as she was around, there was no motivation for me to sit before my laptop and watch my fish, Miguel, do laps around his bowl until I could write a cohesive and reflective blog entry. O Christina, how I love thee.
4. A friend down the hallway brought a PS2 back to school with him after winter break. I suppose you’d have to actually see the burning inferno that takes up residence in my eyes when he beats me over and over and over again in Street Fighter before you understand why, when I had much better things to do (like eat, sleep or do my work) I was determined to stay in that room until I won at least ONE match.

   You see, his favorite character was Akuma. Mine was Chun-Li. And things didn’t get overwhelmingly tense or serious until one of us initiated a match between the two. I can’t tell you how many times the brutal violence that was taking place on his TV screen slowing spread into the room and before we knew it arms were being pinched and/or punched, shins kicked, arms bit, faces smacked and ribs elbowed. I being a former soccer player, actually mirrored the style of Chun-Li: kick til your opponent stops moving. He, being 90% muscle and 10% insanity, took after Akuma and made the few hits he got in reeeeeally count. Either way, I always returned to my room with my hair mussed and grunting obscenities about how ‘that cheating sonofabitch’ was going down next time. And always, always too flustered to even think of doing anything but put on some music and wait until my roommate stopped laughing at my Street Fighter-related rage.

5. The Whit owns my soul. Although it didn’t pan out the way I had hoped, about halfway through the semester I realized that I had grown attached to the A&E section and decided to run for Section Editor. I also realized that I loved writing play previews and reviews (very much so). Behold, the fruits of semester:
   • ‘Ever After’ craps all over conventions [4/26/06]
   • ‘Carmina’ presents an unholy trinity [4/13/06]
   • Campus crime spike [4/6/06]
   • ‘Carmina Burana’: Sex, God and rock opera [4/6/06]
   • Planetarium woes persist [3/30/06]
   • Rowan students b-boy and shake their booties with USA Break Dancers onstage [3/30/06]
   • Vividly vocal vaginas vivify viewers [3/30/06]
   • Students offer tax assistance* [2/23/06]
   • ‘30 Years From Now’ dim and hazy [2/23/06]
   • Straylight Run runs astray [2/9/06]
   • The Blue Method gets ’saxy’ [2/9/06]
   • ‘Fringe’ director predicts 2036 [2/9/06]
   • No shooting stars, just leaking roof [2/2/06]

     * Not the headline listed on the website, but this is what it should have been.

   To put things in context, The Whit is Rowan University’s student run and produced weekly newspaper. As you can see, there were some weeks when I worked harder than others. By no means am I trying to toot my own horn. But, even for my own purposes, its nice to have a semester’s worth of work in one place.

So there you have it, five — legitimate, but by varying degrees — reasons why actually living through my Spring 2006 semester at Rowan took precedent over cataloging my experiences. Accept them either in whole, in part or not at all. Quite frankly, your acceptance has little to do with how I feel about my past semester. I merely did this to satisfy the curiosity of anyone kind enough to be curious about what I’ve been doing with myself for the past few months.

Now, four months stand between me and my fall semester. Plans, as of right now, are as follows:

Priority #1: Work work work work work and MORE work at the golf range where I am part-time cashier and full-time slave. Although I’m not always in the best mood after my 7- or 8-hour shifts, my co-workers make the pain bittersweet. As a college student just recently having finished the first of four money-draining years at Rowan University, I can very earnestly say that I have a new appreciation for each and every dollar I earn. Work sucks, but being broke sucks more. Such is life.

Priority #2: Become a fine coniseur of my area’s local newspapers. Granted, I don’t plan on eventually putting in a long-term stint at any of them during post-graduction… it can’t hurt to know what’s immediately available in the area and get familiar with what I do and don’t like. Besides, after hearing about the dismal amount of jobs available for journalists, I have to face the fact that I may realistically have no choice but to put in a long-term stint at one of them out of necessity. If that’s the case, and I promise I won’t throw too much of a tantrum if it is, then I ought to develop a good idea of where I’d prefer to be now.

Priority #3: Looking for internships. Honestly, I’d love to do some stringer work while I’m at home but am not at all sure how to go about doing it. Any advice on the matter would be MOST helpful.

Priority #4: Besides worrying about my next paycheck and future career, I’m going to need some recreation. For that, I hope to indulge in some concerts, ze beach, ice cream, summer nights spent staring at the stars, pools and occasionally going to the gym.

Priority #5: Resuming my place as The Jones Family Smart Ass, Wise-Acher and All Around Michief Maker. I haven’t seem them for quite a while. Its about time I make up for all that lost time, wouldn’t you say?

And so ends the first post to end my several month-long hiatus. Without sounding like the ultimate comment whore, I will mention that comments — especially nagging ones — will keep me coming back to this.

Until next time, adieu.

 

Sweetly Bitter Symphony

You conduct the soundtrack of my desire

like Walt illustrated Beethoven and Mozart

in Fantasia. Always getting the arc and

height of my crescendos just right.

You can follow my melody and harmony

into the soft lull of a decrescendo.

You know when to slow the tempo and

allow the colors of my chords to permeate

the air like dew. You dance in time with my

heart. Only a tango can match the passion

That swells within me. Together we fall

Into the midnight serenades of an oboe.

Just as we’ve painted a pastel canvas of

Tranquility and stability you crash against

The timpani and wake the sleeping

Violinists. They’ve fallen to dreaming

And outer-body wandering while listening

To the careful fluctuations of their own vibrato.

Sprightly piccolos chirp like springtime

Songstresses before taking flight to join the

The deep blues and indigoes of the flutes

and clarinets. The baton seems possessed

by the score and dances wildly before your

hypnotized and haunting eyes.

The sands of divine inspiration and the

Mists of reincarnation surround you. The horns

Send a wave crashing against my mind and

The cellos chase drops of water racing down

My insides like murmured musical manifestations.

A trombone slides itself into one of the

Ghosts from my past and pants of a sad

Solo that suggests jazz. The string bass

Bounces into a duet. A most regal

Shade of blue illuminates our shadows.

Dainty harp strings send rose petals

Cascading out of my eyes and onto the

Entire ensemble. A baritone player blows

A haughty howl that swells from the back

And my choir and I rise. We float on the

Cacophony of sound, in robes of the dead.

Stars surge in your mouth and spill

Out onto the orchestra of my

Four-chambered organ. Entire galaxies

Fill the audience and demigods, goddess,

And deities lay half-awake and half-stoned

In the wings. Traces of romance and lust

Stain their lips. We enter our final measures.

You strike mighty earthquakes of motion

As you conduct an artful apocalypse. My choir

Throws down its robes and moans of truth.

We race towards the last chord with speed

That shocks my system and forces yet-unborn

Stars into blazing life. At the final chord we

Build pyramids, castles and planets with the

Magnitude of our sound. A tear falls from

my cheek and silences all. My sad smile

eclipses the sun and we disappear in blackness.

 

Straylight Run strays into dangerous territory

This is a concert review that was going to run in the Features section this week, but there wound up not being enough room for it in the section. A story of mine about the planetarium did run in the News section though. Anyway, here’s my review:

A brigade of bonafide emo kids turned out at least 500-strong to have their heartstrings yanked by the delicate piano melodies and subdued guitars that are Straylight Run.

However, if you happened to stroll past the Student Center Pit around 9:00 p.m., you would have been witness to the emotionally delicate crowd waiting patiently for this semester’s first Turned Up Tuesday act to take the stage. The holdup? They were, believe it or not, waiting for their fog machine to warm up.

Despite their foggy technical difficulties, and the 15 minute wait that it prompted, Straylight kept most of its onlookers in the Pit and on its feet. About half of the crowd stood gathered before the stage throughout the set, while the rest took to the Pit’s couches and balconies.

Like most acts that are capable of drawing a sizeable crowd, the band seemed a bit bewildered to be playing to a crowd that surrounded them on all sides. This didn’t stop vocalist/guitarist/pianist John Nolan from delivering a disappointing piece of news that would set the tone for the rest of the performance.

“I can’t believe how many people showed up,” said Nolan. “I probably shouldn’t say anything,” he then added, sounding a little embarrassed and anxious, “but we don’t have a set list.”

Perhaps he anticipated a warm response to the news that the entire set would be improvised. Maybe it was a weak attempt at a joke; because wouldn’t it be funny if this semester’s supposedly biggest Turned Up Tuesday act showed up without a set list from which to play? The crowd’s quiet reaction provided an adequate answer: no.

In a gesture that seemed to quell any unrest Nolan’s announcement may have caused, the band launched into “A Slow Descent,” from the EP they released just last October, Prepare to Be Wrong. The still-new song drew a warm response from the audience and the small matter of their missing set list seemed forgotten, if only for a moment.

In another moment, and many moments thereafter, it became obvious that Straylight should avoid playing unplanned sets. It also became obvious that although they were able to bring a big name to the Turned Up Tuesday stage, they weren’t able to bring an exciting performance.

The low key guitar and piano driven pop left much to be desired in the form of energy. The stage set up, equally mellow, featured bassist Shaun Cooper bathed in a green spotlight, Nolan—while at center stage—bathed in pink and his sister/vocalist/guitarist/pianist Michelle Nolan bathed in yellow.

Drummer Will Noon lurked somewhere behind them without a spotlight. At regular intervals he would shout something to his band mates, supposedly suggestions as to what they should play next. A disgruntled expression hinted that they weren’t taking his advice. If not Noon’s advice, the band should have at least used the set list-less night as an opportunity to do a set of audience requests.

To his credit, John Nolan’s singing was at times enthused and heartfelt. That so much sound can come out of his tight jeans-clad wiry body is a wonder in and of itself. In fact, his belting almost sent a poster advertising leftover Carlos Mencia tickets to the floor.

Halfway through the show, the band left John Nolan on stage to entertain the audience. He made his way through one song before going off stage to see if the band was ready to rejoin him. After being turned down, he returned looking a little miffed and sat down at the keyboard for his second solo act.

Before the band’s last song of the night, “Sympathy for the Martyr,” from their self-titled album, John Nolan chugged a can Red Bull. Unfortunately, the resulting burst of energy came entirely too late to save the gathered masses from what had been a performance unworthy of the hype that preceded it.

This upcoming week: A preview of “30 Years From Now,” a play by NY Director John Clancy
The following week: A review of “30 Years From Now”