Virginia Tech: The Movie
Without doubt, the recent incident at Virginia Tech was lamentable, but since everyone is talking about the actual event, I want to take a look at the media’s role in the occurrence.
From CNN to FOX News, the media giants are all over themselves with taking advantage of the situation to create some entertaining, rating garnering drama. They leapt on this “breaking news” with glee, barely able to contain their salivation.
Listening to all the anchors talk about how unspeakable, senseless, unimaginable, tragic, and horrible the massacre was, I have to wonder just how sincere they are. It’s their job to find the big scoop, and this unfortunate happenstance was paydirt. I’m not saying that none of them truly find it horrendous, but it’s hard to ignore the ridiculous zeal with which they attempt to find yet another storyline from each and every angle of anyone and everyone involved.
It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes after the shootings that students were already being interviewed. Reporters wanted to know every last aspect of each person’s experience, from what they were feeling to what they saw and heard, to what they did directly afterwards, to what they are going to do next, to how they are going to cope with the trauma…ad nauseum.
And, of course, to add to the show, there is touching piano music and images that are supposed to look nostalgic and historic despite the fact that they were taken two hours ago.
It is drama, pure and simple, and it sickens me to my very being.
Perhaps even more nauseating is the fact that this bullshit must be popular with the American public, or we wouldn’t continue to see it. It’s all about ratings. It’s all about the dollar. If you try to pretend that it is not, you are a fool.
The killings at Virginia Tech have dominated the media for days now, and no doubt will continue to for a long time. This is no surprise. After all, they are calling it the “worst mass shooting in American history.”
The media’s disgusting obsession with a single news event is not new. They have recently done the same thing with the Don Imus/Rutgers incident and…God help me…Anna Nicole Smith. They don’t care about you. They don’t care about me. They don’t care about Virginia Tech.
They care about ratings. They care about the next big story, and all the little ones they can make out of it. Media is no longer about reporting the news, but about entertaining the public.
So, sit back and enjoy the show.
I’ll stop procrastinating…tomorrow…
Casting a disgusted glance at the teetering pile of books that need to be read for this semester, I begin to feel a little lightheaded. How can one brain hold so much information, especially one as voluminously challenged as mine? There are papers that must be written, reports that must be done, projects and presentations that must be projected and presented, and quizzes and tests that must be studied for.
I told myself at the beginning of the semester that as long as I did a certain amount in each subject every day, I would never get behind. Those days fled quickly, as they do every semester. Procrastination and lethargy have begun slivering their slimy tendrils toward my mind, grasping at it, desperate to pull me away from the grindstone.
Once again, the all-nighter is a prevalent aspect of my itinerary. The everyday discipline I vowed to maintain has drifted away into the abysses of recreation and social interaction.
I am not alone in backsliding from the graces of sound study habits, however. I have seen it happen to many a student already this semester. In fact, it is usually a group effort.
For instance, Tyrone, Billy, and Hakiru all want to go catch a couple of pitchers of beer. You know you have 87 pages to read in your Philanthropy in the Middle Ages book, but you decide to go out with the gang anyway. By the time you get home, you are in no mood (or condition) to read, so you pass out on the bed, setting the alarm an hour earlier than usual, knowing that you will get up and read before class. Of course, when that earlier hour comes, it is as though your hand slaps the snooze button before the alarm even sounds. Repeat thrice.
Now you are behind, and it seems there is virtually nothing you can do to catch up. I’m with you brother (or sister). This very phenomenon is precisely why I am considerably crankier as the end of the semester approaches – Too many nights without sleep and too many hard days following those nights without sleep. It can wear on even the most resolute, devoted person – though, admittedly, if said person were so resolute or devoted, he/she would not be in our situation in the first place.
What happened, then, to the focused, undistracted students? Are they still out there? They are, and I know a few, but few is the operative word. How can we find the balance between our social needs and our academic goals? Unsavory decisions must be made, it seems, neglecting one desire for the other. Throw in a 20-30 hour/week work schedule and it only makes the equation exponentially more complicated.
There is no magic pill to swallow or sacred mantra to chant that will alleviate the problem before procrastinators such as us. The only solace I can offer is empathy, which, in my mind, goes a long way. Don’t worry, we’ll get it all done…tomorrow.
Parking habits of a disturbed student
Parking at the university is the highlight of my day. Yes, you read me correctly, and yes, I did forget to take my medication this morning. Sanity is overrated, trust me. Typically, the “sane” person will lapse into fits of rage or panic attacks when it comes to finding a decent parking spot somewhere relatively near the university.
I have seen perfectly “normal” college students turn into demon possessed drivers, braking for no one and cutting off old ladies like nobody’s business. As they drive around and around, hoping that someone will leave, they begin to froth at the mouth and steam at the ears. Now tell me this is not entertaining to watch.
I drive around slowly, munching on a pop tart, giggling softly to myself as I watch the madness develop around me. So many cars. Where could they all have possibly come from? It is as though a black hole opened up on 28th street and several thousand transfer students from Uranus (or mine) decided not to skip class (which is unusual, considering attendance policies have never been strictly enforced at non-earth schools).
You might interject, “Hey, um, scientifically, there is not way a black hole could have ‘opened up’ on earth,” but this is my fantasy world; hence, my rules apply – and I say black holes can open up on earth. I mean, come on, don’t tell me you haven’t seen your share of strange-looking characters on campus.
Anyway, wherever these cars are coming from, it is exciting to watch. Just looking out over my dashboard to see a line of cars longer than my list of parking violations fills me with joy unspeakable. There is nothing quite like the peaceful blaring of horns or the content squealing of tires.
I especially love it when the entire university decides to utilize the crosswalk at the same time. People are so interesting to watch, especially the ones who cross slowly enough to make a turtle jealous.
What a thrill it is to painstakingly circle every parking lot within a two mile radius, pausing every three seconds for a car or person. Furthermore, when I have finally found that coveted spot, I am overwhelmed with disappointment, for the best part of the day has come to an end, and I traipse off to class, cackling maniacally in anticipation of doing it all again the next day.
The Never Ending Class
There you are, trapped, unable to do anything about your situation. The sound of the instructor’s voice seems to you a hammer pounding away at a nail that just won’t go in. It mirrors the pounding of your head, inundated with blurry information, punch drunk and battle weary. You just do not feel like being in class today. You would rather be doing almost anything but what you are doing right now – sitting in Dr. Pindlesnip’s mandatory attendance Intro to Algebraic Poetry class.
Oh, you have sat through similarly bland classes, but there is an unending nature about the one in which you sit that gnaws at everything you consider humane and acceptable. You have been trapped in The Never Ending Class. You have tried everything you could think of to alleviate your suffering. Doodling was quickly abandoned, as you realized that you could scarcely draw a straight line, much less anything worthy of presentation. It’s depressing, really, how horrible your drawings are, so you seek other methods to get you through the incessant droning emanating from somewhere in front of you.
You decide to write a letter to your significant other, but your mood has sunk to the point that you are not sure just how significant he/she is anyway. You just want the class to end. Counting the number of dots on the ceiling quickly lost its value as a distraction, as did flirting with the person next to you. You really shouldn’t be flirting anyway, but you had to try something.
Now you are counting seconds in your head, but the seconds seemed to have transformed themselves into minutes, and the minutes into hours. The droning continues, and you adjust the position of your buttocks against the wooden desk that holds you captive. Of course, doing homework for another class will not work, especially after John Inglebrick got caught the other day. The old trick of putting a magazine in front of your textbook will not work either, because your book is only slightly larger than your hand. It would have to be a pretty small magazine, and you aren’t into reading that much for that matter.
Only 35 minutes left now. Wait a minute. Weren’t there only 30 minutes left the last time you checked? You don’t remember. Great. This class will never end, will it?
You have bitten (or filed, for those refined, couth, readers) your nails, tapped your foot, and popped your knuckles, but there you sit, affixed to your seat like a patient on his deathbed. Half of your rear end has gone to sleep, and your head begins to nod, as if it would like to follow suit. Hastily, you snap yourself back into reality. Linda Wonderbraski got singled out for snoozing last week.
Have you truly discovered Hell on earth? Suffer even this, my friend, for there is a solution to this incessant torture. What? I am offering a solution? Yes, I know it seems dubious, but I actually have a suggestion.
Pay close attention and take ridiculously copious notes. I know, yada yada yada, you are sucking up to the University or some abstract power that be, but I assure you, this is not the case. I kiss no asses, nor do I brown any noses. Now, let me tell you, this works! It really does. Even in classes that are grotesquely boring, I have found that it helps considerably to just give up and make an effort to take interest. Take it for what it is – not for what you want it to be. After all, you have to do it, right? You might as well get your money’s worth. Besides, deep down, you really do care what grade you do or do not make, so stop lying to yourself.
Well, it works for me – sometimes. Give it a wholehearted try. You might be surprised. If it doesn’t work, then your quest to survive The Never Ending Class might be as futile as Gary Coleman’s chances of becoming Governor of California. Then again, you never know.
Morning mournings
7:00.
The alarm clock sounds, and you smash it with a nearby textbook. I mean, after all, you haven’t missed class that many times, and you deserve to sleep in, right? Professor Nobbledy will probably not even notice your absence.
And then, from nowhere, tendrils of guilt slither into your mind, with their accompanying voices of accusation. If you miss class, you will fall behind that much more, and it will end up causing you more work in the long run. Logically, you can’t afford to miss another day.
Your weariness is not going to give in without a fight, however. You will just close your eyes for a couple of minutes, that’s all. Stop, the minions of guilt cry out desperately. A war begins to take place in your mind for control of your body. The voices say you are just being lazy, but you try to reason with them. Missing one day isn’t laziness; it’s just taking a break. Yes, but you’ve already missed three days, and you know it. Have you? Yawning, you attempt to recall the days you have missed, but they run together with other classes that you have skipped. Was it three in Physics or three in Comp? Scratching your head in irritation, you squint angrily at your clock, which is dangling from the nightstand by the cord.
7:04.
It could be fast, you muse, pursing your lips.
Setting the clock gingerly back on the nightstand, you apologize to it. It’s not the clock’s fault, after all. It’s just doing its job. It’s you who suffer from early morning anger management problems.
7:06.
You collapse back onto the bed, hiding your head in your pillow, closing your eyes tightly. Why should you feel guilty? Because you don’t want to be perceived as irresponsible, especially by yourself. So say the voices, anyway. Wait a minute, you don’t have actual voices in your head, do you? You make a mental note not to mention this to anyone.
7:09.
Well, there goes the shower, if you do end up going, that is. You still haven’t given in to the incessant pummeling you are receiving from reason and rationality.
7:11.
You suppose you won’t be shaving, either – there is simply not time. At this rate you won’t even have time to wear clothes, so why even bother trying to get up and rush around? You’ll probably be late, and you hate that. You have to walk in front of the entire class with everyone staring at you like you have grown horns. No, that certainly won’t do.
7:15.
You hurl the covers aside frantically and bolt out of bed, throwing on yesterday’s jeans and a shirt you don’t even recognize. You have lost. As you are sliding your feet into your shoes without untying them, you gaze up toward the ceiling, silently shaking your fist and snarling at the invisible faces of responsibility, guilt, and principle.
Your shirt half tucked in, you race out the door – and race right back in, realizing you have forgotten your keys. Where are those bloody things, anyway? You should really get organized.
7:24.
Having finally found your keys, you have reached your car, but suddenly realize that you have forgotten your backpack. Darting back into the house, you scour the house for your bag ‘o books, but to your increasing panic, you are unable to find it.
This time you scream out loud and decide to go to class without your books. As you get in your car, you see, there in the backseat, your backpack. Sighing with relief and laughing at yourself, you zoom off to the university.
7:35
The parking lots are packed as usual, but that’s not a problem for you, because you park in a special lot. Now, where is your wallet? You know, the one with your entry card in it? Yes, that one. There is a thud as your head repeatedly smites the steering wheel. The girl in the car behind you is looking at you as though you have begun to foam at the mouth. You have to get several cars to back up in order for you to negotiate your way out of the entry.
7:51.
There is still time. You end up parking two miles away and setting the world record for sprinting with a backpack. Sweat has beaded on your forehead, and your breathing is ragged.
8:04.
Carefully, you twist the knob and enter the classroom, trying to draw as little attention to yourself as possible, though Professor Nobbledy, with his usual charm and professionalism, abates his lecture in mid sentence to glare at you with enough venom to make a cobra jealous. You finally make it to your accustomed seat near the back of the class. Greg Giglinod whispers to you, wondering if you realized that your zipper was undone. You were not privy to this information, and you thank him, laughing and rolling your eyes while inwardly wailing.
Reaching inside your backpack, you are unable to find the book you need for class. Your cheeks are twitching by this point, and your lips have begun to move wordlessly. You vaguely remember using a book to wallop your alarm clock earlier…Ah yes, Principles of Physics, a necessary item in the quest to follow Nobbledy’s monotonous ramblings. Lapsing into somewhat of a stupor of numbness, you envy that physics book, for it is still lying on your bed – a place you should never have left.
The Female: A study in confusion
I don’t believe I will ever understand females. Apart from the way they can tie a man’s brain in knots, they have some extremely peculiar habits. Of course, I realize that women could just as easily say that about men, but we’ll have to deal with that later.
First, let us consider the way a typical young lady garbs herself, beginning with the shoes. That should give my pen much ink, for I don’t know of very many girls who don’t have a closet full of them. Honestly, how many males do you know that have more than 20 pairs of shoes? I wear a pair of shoes until holes begin to form in the soles, and then I wear them some more. Women? They figure if they have worn a pair shoes three or four times it is time to buy some new ones. After all, there is a sale at Penny’s, and they need something to go with that new outfit they just bought. I swear, shoe salesmen must love women. In fact, I bet some girls are on a first name basis with mall employees.
And they never throw them away, regardless of the fact that they will never wear them again. I am starting to think that shoes are some kind of sacred relics to females.
I was walking to class with a good female friend, and she began to complain that her feet were hurting.
“It’s these shoes,” she said. I looked down, and she was wearing red high heels. So, I asked her, “If they hurt your feet, why did you wear them?”
“Because they’re cuuuute,” she replied. Ah, why hadn’t I thought of that before? Maybe girls look at other girls’ feet, but I very rarely look at anyone’s shoes, especially not to see what kind they are wearing. Maybe that is just me, but I suspect most males are the same way.
Consider the jeans some girls wear. Here we have Mariana Drags sporting a new pair of Levi’s. Now, no one is sure exactly how Mariana got those jeans on, but there she is, walking like a robot, taking tiny steps, unable to bend her knees. Unbeknownst to the general public, she has to get a couple of friends to help at night by holding her upside down by the ends of her pants and shaking her until she finally wiggles out onto the floor.
I don’t see how some females breathe. Oh, and you can forget about putting anything in their pockets – it just ain’t happening. I realize that not all girls wear tight jeans, but Holy Buddha, some of you females should be nicer to yourselves.
It’s strange how a female will wear revealing, provocative clothing and then become angry when some guy stares at her. What do you expect when you only put on half of your shirt? Did you cut those little flesh-revealing designs or did it come that way? If it was like that when you bought it, did you pay full price for it? Where is the section that is supposed to cover the breasts? You should have gotten a discount.
Some girls seem obsessed with makeup. Have you ever seen a girl with so much paint on her face that you wondered if there actually was a face beneath all of that gook? Granted, there are some women who need makeup – and by all means, please wear it. But, what about us ugly guys? Why can’t we paint our faces to make us look better?
Speaking of putting on makeup, why does it take some females two hours to get ready? It takes me about 15 minutes, and that includes taking a shower, brushing my teeth, combing my hair, and getting dressed – not necessarily in that order. It takes a girl 15 minutes just to get in the right mindset to get in the shower. What sort of ritualistic mantras or ceremonies take place behind that bathroom door?
Another thing that has always been a mystery to me is the fact that women do not seem able to go to the bathroom by themselves. For some reason, they use the buddy system. What is that all about, anyway? Are they afraid of getting mugged in the restroom or does it just get lonely in there? If a guy told me he was going to the bathroom and asked me if I wanted to come, I would run away as fast as I could.
No, I will never understand the ways of women, but I take comfort in the probability that no other man will either.
Is Laughter really the best medicine?
They say laughter is the best medicine. My question is for what? Let’s consider a couple of possibilities.
- You have broken 205 of the bones in your body due to a horrendous gator golf accident. No common sense would say get that boy to a doctor. No need, right? Just laugh it off. After all, you still have one good bone, don’t you? Isn’t that funny in an ironic way? Besides, think of all the money you’ll be saving by not visiting your favorite physician. Or maybe you are waxing altruistic and saving you beloved insurance company a fat wad of cash. Now that’s funny.
- You have lapsed into a near comatose depression after your entire family was gunned down by a preteen who had seen The Matrix one too many times. Because of your initial shock and denial, you have lost your job at the firm. You have neglected bills and, well, just about everything and everyone. Not a problem. All you need, my friend, is a good, hearty chuckle. Did you know that laughing burns calories? Think of that the next time you want to delve into that gargantuan box of ho ho’s. You should by no means seek professional help of any kind. Antidepressants and psychotherapy have no use whatsoever, nor do counseling or group therapy. Turn that frown upside down, amigo! For one thing, look at how worthless and meaningless your existence is. Your every breath is just another inhalation of agony. You have to admit, it is pretty dad gum humorous. Sigh.
Sometimes, when I feel like throwing a trite anecdote or pithy little saying toward a person in pain, I think of how much the collision would hurt. And then I do it anyway, and we both laugh.
Save the shadow
Terrible injustice has been wrought for millennia, and no one seems to have noticed, much less cared. I speak of the maltreatment (whether beknownst or unbeknownst) of the shadow. That’s right, the shadow. For thousands of years the shadow has been subject to humankind. Think about it. They are constantly forced to follow the lead of some oblivious human. If the arm moves, the shadow has no choice in the matter. What if the shadow doesn’t feel like moving his arm? No sir, none of that – the shadow has to move. Furthermore, if a human so decides, a shadow can spend most of his/her life on the ground. I mean, the ground is nice and all, but would you want to be there all day? Oh, and little Joe Bob doesn’t think about it when he scampers blissfully over a pile of rocks. Don’t you think that hurts? Who does it hurt? Not Joe Bob.
Because of humans, some shadows have to stay put day after day after day. Because of all the cute little items Cindy Lou has stacked around her house, she is punishing other shadows besides her own. She buys lamps, not thinking of the new shadows she will bring into torturous existence. Why do you think they take the opportunity to run away when you turn off the light? I would, too…if I were a shadow, that is. Shadows of all inanimate objects are cursed to a static life. “But,” you might interject, “what about mountains? Surely humans cannot be responsible for that.” They are, indeed! They are responsible for not taking notice and taking action to alleviate the pain of that super-sized shadow.
Sadly, many shadows resort to boxing in order to vent their frustrations. At least, the ones that can. Mr. Mountain’s shadow could probably deliver a hell of a punch, what with his size advantage and all, but will he ever get the chance? Probably not. What can we do for such a shadow, anyway? Maybe nothing, but why not do something about the ones you can? It would boost the moral of the denizens of darkness, and it probably would make you feel good about yourself as well.
My job is not to provide a solution to this problem, of course, because I have absolutely no clue what can be done, but there has to be something. Let’s not run from the issue, but rather face it in light of the darkness it creates.
Breadwinner
I am not a breadwinner. I do not win bread. I frequently eat large quantities of it, but said bread is in no way, shape or form, won by me. Does this make me a bread loser, seeing as how I’m not winning any bread? Perhaps so, for it is not uncommon for a certain porcelain entity in the nether parts of the household to summon me at various junctures during the day to bestow upon me the opportunity to lose some of this bread I have not won, though have indeed both ingested and digested.
Such unpleasantries aside, though, it is nonetheless possible to lose bread that you have not won. In fact, it is often easier (and more fun) to lose bread that someone else has won than to lose bread of which you yourself have been the winner. Bread may be lost after a number of interesting fashions.
For example, one could lose copious amounts of bread by simply not winning any at all. People will come and take your bread away from you in exchange for your mere existence in something say, similar to an apartment. And it would behoove us not to forget the myriad ways in which bread may, indeed, be lost wittingly, as in the cases of the souse, the junkie, and otherwise addicted. These poor saps freely donate a goodly portion of their hard, unearned bread to other saps, who in turn squander this newly acquired bread in variegated manners.
Besides these concerns, I wonder how exactly bread is won; that is, in what particular manner does one win bread? Is there some sort of jousting contest, or is it more of a general melee? This, I confess, I do not know, since I am not a winner of bread, as I have noted previously. I therefore and thusly salute all who name themselves winners of bread, for it seems a noble task, and one that deserves consideration for all winners in general. After all, if you are a winner, you might as well be winning bread.
It all started when…
On a more serious line of thought, today I thought I would write about the beginning of the universe, or whatever. I recently attended a lecture by Michael Shermer, editor of The Skeptic magazine and frequent writer for Scientific American. The basic content of the presentation was Creationism vs. Evolution. He raised many interesting points, but there was one thing that bothered me about his lecture. Although the topic was mentioned and discussed from several perspectives, he never really addressed the issue of the beginning of everything.
Shermer talked about Intelligent Design, and said that if it is logical to say that one can look at the earth and claim it must have been designed, then it should be just as logical to look at the intelligent designer and say that he must have been designed as well. Then, it would be equally plausible to look at the “superior designer” (the one who designed the designer) and infer that he/she, too, must have been designed by a super superior designer, and so on. The point he made was interesting, and it highlighted a question I have, as have many, struggled with. To wit, how did everything (the universe or whatever) begin? More specifically, is it logically evitable that something (whether it be God, a superior being, the universe, etc.) be eternal?
Mr. Shermer mentioned the idea again when he pondered, “What was before time?” or “What did the Big Bang bang into?” He acknowledged the question, but did not provide any sort of answer. He said that these were “questions with very interesting answers,” but he did not proffer any such answers. The purpose here is not to criticize Mr. Shermer, for I realize that the question under consideration is something that has been investigated for millenia. I do not fault him for failing to provide a solution to the quintessential puzzle of life.
If something cannot come from nothing, then something must be eternal. In other words, it is impossible to have a beginning. If there was a beginning, what was before that beginning? This leads us logically to the notion of eternality.
Perhaps the unfortunate reality is that, at this time, we simply do not have the mental capacity to observe, comprehend, or explain this ill-defined quandary. The two options that remain are simple: 1. Continue the search, hoping to arrive at the truth, or 2. Ignore the question completely and enjoy life for what it is. I’ll leave that debate for another time.
Mercurial Musings 