CD Review: FutureSex/LoveSounds

Last week we bought the new Justin Timberlake CD, "FutureSex/LoveSounds." When I learned several months ago that he was coming out with a new album, I was pretty darn excited. His last release was pretty much the soundtrack to my life, 2002-04, and it helped me come to the realization that, musically speaking, I *am* Justin Timberlake. If I made music, it would be like the music he makes. Now, when I say "I *am* Justin Timberlake," I don't mean that in a creepy way. I just mean that his music says what I would say, in the way I would say it, with approximately the same approach to love and life. I can't be John Mayer, because he has a slight trace of weenie in him and is presumably not much of a dancer. I can't be Eric Benet, because I haven't failed at as many relationships as he has, nor have I spent intimate time with Halle Berry. I can't be Stevie Wonder, because I'm not blind. But, I *am* Justin Timberlake. That's not creepy, right? Right?

Anyways, onto the music. The entire album is a seamless collaboration with Timbaland, music producer extraordinaire and a Virginian to boot. The disc creates this synthetic whorl of beeps and rising scales and pushing bass lines, kind of Prince, kind of Bowie, capped off with Justin singing pretty darn well. He's got a pretty unique voice that is aptly suited for the somewhat robotic and futurey nature of Timbaland's beats - he brings some life to it. There are several interludes on the album that offer extended introductions to some of the tracks, or serve as mini-remixes of others. The constant interactions with Timbaland makes the album kind of like a buddy movie, two guys on the prowl looking for love, and their easy friendship is pretty awesome too. It reminded me of me and my friends when we're in a bar. I'm sure as I listen to the album more I'll figure out some other awesome aspects to it - as it is now, it's just great listening to quality music that I know I will memorize, and quick.

The songs are all fantastic, but the second single, "My Love," is definitely my early favorite. It is simply awesome - it's got me bopping down the street, lip-syncing in the hallways, suppressing a dance face as I strut to school every day. I don't think I've loved a song this much since... I don't know. But it's the kind of song I can hear over and over again, which I am reluctant to do because then I will grow to resent it and hate it, like a friend you meet on the first day of school and then gradually realize you loathe. I don't want to loathe this song.

Anyways, this album is killer. Looking over this post I realize I look a little creepy, but deal with it. It's a great album, it's black music by a white person with talent and a sense of humor and a certain sense of rhythm and style, and that's all you could want. FutureSex/LoveSounds - a great album with kind of a stupid title. Maybe a better one would have been, "Songs by Justin relating to Mike." But not in a creepy way.

Five years later

It is a rare day that begins in sadness and ends in some state of happiness or satisfaction. I was eager to wake up early today, to be alert and respectful for the moments of silence and to watch all the memorials on tv. So we got up and turned on the telly and watched the spouses of the victims reading names. My throat hitched when one woman lamented the death of her fiance - they never even had a chance. I looked at the photos on the Washington Post site from that horrible, indelible day: people peering out from the windows of one of the towers, trapped above the impact area; people emerging from the dusty caverns of lower Manhattan soaked in feasrsome gray ash; a man tumbling heels over head from his previous perch in the building; people holding candles in vigils across the world.

We are five years removed from that, but the sadness and anger remain. This was horrible on a micro, personal level -- the lives lost, the fear, the last cellphone calls, the decisions to fall from the twin towers rather than be consumed within them. Yet it was also horrible on a larger level, in the bitter fruits it has bestowed on our body politic: a misguided war, cynical manipulations of the truth, the politicization of national tragedy, Orwellian contortions of language: "terrorism," "patriot act," "homeland," to say nothing of the ubiquitous flag lapel pin, now a symbol of jingoism and political ideology. Yet the worst part of all is that there has been no redemptive moment for this entire ordeal; nothing good has emerged, no justice has been done, yet our country has paid a price in its liberty, security, youth, optimism, national character and hope. And we have not yet been redeemed.

Tonight I was walking home, towards the two towers of light jetting upwards from lower Manhattan to commemorate the day. They reached so high above that I felt aware of the curvature of the earth. I considered that five years ago, these streets were filled with ash and billowing smoke and utter confusion, and yet tonight I saunter down these same roads, towards the same ground that witnessed the horror.

People on the sidewalks around me were eating dinner and talking and laughing. They were taking photos of the lights. Everyone was aware of what this day means, but life endures anyway. Pain becomes more bearable, perhaps anger turns into patience and peace. One day New Yorkers are fleeing up from the streets of lower Manhattan with crashing buildings at their backs; another day you walk back down, towards home, after the smoke has dissipated and with a strong light to guide your way.

It always ends like this

It always ends like this: too much wine, not enough of whatever else I am seeking.... why can't there be more time for conversation, why can't there be more wine to drink, more night to explore, more time to endure. L is gone for the weekend, I've had a great evening with Ashesh (dinner, drinks with law school types, SNL and cab savignon) yet it always ends like this. I love my apartment, I love my life, I miss my wife, and the sum total of all is this feeling of bittersweet/wistfulness/nostalgia. Wistfulness -- can I just say wist? Is that a word? It should be.

How about this: Wist - melancholy, the way you feel once the party is done, the feeling you have when you are tired and perhaps drunk (definitely drunk) but when you ardently wish that the party could continue. Wist - knowing happiness and missing it? The emotion you wish you could recapture, the emotion you are too impatient to wait for. Don't end sentences on a preposition, Mr. Dunn, but on the plus side, you used the word "ardently" in a sentence somewhat correctly. Has "ardently" ever popped into your head before? Why, no, actually it hasn't, so good for me.

How about this for wist: the pleasure, the deep and painful and irrepressible and addictive pleasure of missing the happiness you've known and the people you've loved. How about this: L, come home, baby, I miss you. James, come back so we can eat burritos and drink and watch tv and laugh at this life. Russell, Patrick, Trish, Kateri, come back and let us live our young days again. (You know, one time my 2nd year of school I was walking with Russell to the Treehouse from Dobie, to get a late night snack, and there was a wounded bird or insect on the sidewalk, and Russell took the time to move the injured and dying thing off the sidewalk and into the relative safety of the shrubbery and underbrush, and that's when I knew we would be friends.) And how about this: Mom Dad Kels Grandma Pap Pap Grammy Grampy, come here and let me redeem the love and pride you've invested in me...

Sometimes I feel that I am too weak a vessel to contain everything within me: good intentions in a paper grocery bag. Indefatigable. Nonsensical. Does anyone even read this shit any more?

Stop being polite

I was running today, thinking about my marriage and the life choices I've made, and the bright future that lies ahead of me, and I had a realization: I can't be on "The Real World" anymore. I know, I know, I aged out of the "RW" demographic about a year and a half ago, but my main concern today was that they never cast married people on the show. How would that even work, anyway? I guess L could come to visit for a weekend, the way other Real Worlders' significant others do, but I think she might be a little angry that I was leaving for four months to live in some Ikea-furnished loft and work in some menial yet trendy capacity (tanning salon, sailboat minion, drug mule). I bet our visit would actually be not that fun, now that I think about it.

I think I would have had a lot to contribute. I would have been a moderating force in the house, and my narrative interviews would have been witty, insightful, and humorous. I would have helped people be on time to work and I always would have pitched in with household chores. I could have made a chore wheel, if my roommates thought that would be useful. And maybe I would have learned something from them, too, about my own latent racism or sexism or homophobia. I would have taught my roommates about reading for pleasure.

So I guess that boat has passed. I always hoped I would have had the "This is the true story" line of the opening credits. The glory days of the show are well behind it -- I wouldn't want to participate in its current iteration of booze + hot tub + STI outbreak -- but it would have been fun. I've been watching that show since I was too young to be on it, I relished the golden era when the roommates were truly my peers, and now I offer them a wistful look back as an older brother figure, a mentor. Do they need an RA on that show? Because I could definitely do that.

Family conversation

L and I spent the weekend in Virginia, attending a big party my mom organized to introduce L to the extended family. Since a lot of my mom's cousins and aunts and uncles weren't invited to the big show, she wanted to organize a family party to make sure there were no hard feelings. It was her first effort at a big multigenerational gathering, and she did quite well, so I was happy for her.

It has been a weird summer for the family. There were three big events: my mom's uncle had a major, $270-million dollar water treatment plant named after him (you know, standard stuff, really), so there was a big reception and party for that; then, my 40-year old cousin died after a long and horrible battle with cancer; and then I got married. I went home at the end of July for my cousin's funeral, but hadn't seen most of the attendees at my mom's party since then.

People were passing around a photo album with pictures from the water treatment plant party. There was one skinny, dark-skinned guy there who I didn't recognize; he had a mustache and was sitting in a large armchair for most of the shots, with people wrapping an arm around him or holding his hand. "Who's dating the Indian guy," is what I thought. Of course, this was my cousin -- I didn't recognize him with a mustache, and much more profoundly, his kidney failure (?) had lent a horrible yellowish tint to his skin color. He looked awful.

Well, this scenario provided the scene for a perfect storm of conversational awkwardness in our kitchen. My grandma was looking at the photo album, and chatting with someone about that, while a cousin of mine, balancing a toddler on her hip who was trying to clamber all over her, spoke about her kids. This is how it went down:

Grandma: These photos are hard to look at.

Cousin Whoever (with the kid): I tell you, this little guy loves food.

Grandma: I just can't believe anyone could look this awful. It's just awful.

Cousin Whoever: At Christmas, he dragged a chair in front of the food - he didn't even want to open presents!

Grandma: I think they should just keep these photos separate. You just with there was something you could do for him.

Cousin Whoever: I mean, take him to Old Country Buffet, or Sizzler! He just wants something to eat! Come on! [rueful laughter]

At this point, thankfully, the conversations veered away from each other, and the horrible conflation of cancer and hungry toddlers. But at this point I was also trying to figure out how I could unobtrusively light my mom's tablecloth on fire so that everyone would switch to a new topic.

As people were leaving, everyone was happy to meet L and glad that they family had reunited so often this last year. They all looked forward to seeing people more often, as the new generation (mine) started getting married, having kids, etc. Later that night we were opening gifts that people weren't supposed to bring, and the mother of my cousin who passed away had given us a Christmas ornament of his -- "a special delivery from Heaven," as the card said. Apparently she is spreading his belongings throughout the family, so that no one will forget him. But his absence this weekend was a current underlying the entire event, and there is no chance we would or could forget him.

I don't know, this is a rough topic. When this was all happening over the summer I thought about reflecting on everything here, but it was too much to get into, and I don't think now is the time either. Family is a whole mess o' stuff, though, ain't it?

Thirteen point one

The last time I ran a half marathon (the only time, in August 2005 -- see blog entry from 8/28/05), I staggered to the finish line with bloody ankles, distended muscles and a throbbing in my stomach and chest. It was the worst running experience of my life, through heat and rain and the kind of smutty fog that only settles over this blighted island during the worst days of summer.

With 8 months of gym time under my belt and fresh athletic socks on my feet, I attempted another half-marathon yesterday. Beloved reader, it was fantastic - one of the best running experiences of my life. Nike and a few city agencies joined forces to organize this ass-kicking course through Manhattan: a loop and change around Central Park, straight down 7th Avenue into Times Square, then a turn onto 42nd Street over to the West Side Highway, then down to Battery Park. They closed the streets for us, and we had to line up a bit earlier than usual, slogging into the Park for the 7 am start time.

Once we began, it was so packed that during the entire 8 miles in Central Park, I spent more time and energy jockeying for position than paying attention to distance or the clock. There was just this incredible sea of people you had to wade through.

But then when you turned onto 7th Avenue and started a straight shot down into the canyons of Times Square, it was simply exhilarating - bands playing on the sidewalks, cops guarding the streets, people watching and cheering - even when the heavens opened up and these huge, fat raindrops came pummeling down, I felt so good and so strong. The stretch down 42nd St, to the West Side Highway, was a bit depressing in the rain and cold, and I tried one of those carb infusion goo's (like a cross between icing and toothpaste - not cool). The stretch down the West Side Highway was surprisingly boring, and I felt my energy lag at the monotony of running on flat highway, as the buildings of lower Manhattan slowly emerged in the fog. in the last two miles I had a stitch in my side and my knees were aching, but I kept pounding away, 800 meters left, 400, and that was it. I ended up running 1 hour, 47 minutes - 8:09 per mile, 13 times over - a full 20 minutes better than my time last year, during the massacre of August 2005.



Anyways, it was a brilliant race, one of the highlights of my time as a New York Road Runner. I took James' advice and walked through each fluid station, sipping on water and Gatorade. We took this photo later that night, after we were all cleaned up (but while our legs were still twitching from the exhaustion and strain): L and I triumphant on the couch, holding our medals, as well as the "Run Like Jimmy" button L created in honor of our friend who just ran across an ocean. It was a great experience.

Ready to run

This is true for me, and it is true of a lot of other people, based on personal experience: at the gym, people think it's ok to be a jerk. I'm paying big money to go there, and when I'm stuck in some horrible group exercise class, I have no qualms about stomping out of there with a furious scowl across my face. A few months ago I was all pumped up for my standard Thursday ass-kicking bass-thumping step class, when some perky substitute came in and started prancing all around the room. Like bad step teachers everywhere, she had stupid names for stupid moves: "Ok, let's loop the loop! Loop it! Loop it! Loop it LEFT! Loop it LEFT! Loop it! Loop it! Loop--" With a grim look on my face, and muttering the words "this is horseshit," I stalked past everybody else, put my junk away and left. Do I care if people were looking at me weird? Do I care if I offended the teacher? No, I don't. It's my time, my workout. Perhaps this is the kind of thing I should never bother worrying about, ever, but I do, so this is big for me.

Anyways, last night I was stuck in the worst group gym class anyone has ever participated in, and I include the activities of Hitler Youth in that statement. Maybe it was my fault -- the class was called "Cardio Video Dance," I was bored, I figured, what the hell, I watch enough music videos. I walked in and everyone was on the floor stretching like it was the prelude to "Flashdance." The teacher struts in with her posse of J.V. Pussycat-Dolls types, and announces that "today we're going to be 'Mimi.'"

Oh, like Mariah Carey? OK, that could work -- maybe some "Say Somethin'," "It's Like That"....

"...Mimi from 'Rent.' So, all you guys [eye contact from teacher to me], today you're going to be girls."

You know, usually I only grit my teeth when I sleep, but at that moment I felt a familiar tension throughout my jaw. Still, I tried to be a good sport and lined up with the group. First was the toe-tapping thing, then this chest-thrusting thing - awkward but still within the realm of my dignity. Then the teacher starts shimmying her hips and running her hand along the side of her body - moving into a squat on your haunches, rub another hand down your torso.... OK. Yeah. I'm in the wrong room. Not daring to look at anyone, I grab my music and towel and scurry out of there.

I can hear the music pounding in the studio but I hop on a treadmill and start running. I was pissed that I wasted my time and felt embarassed for looking stupid in front of a room full of dance chicks and local gays. I ran for half an hour in that mincing, cramped treadmill way: my pelvis bonking against the front of the machine when I moved too fast, staring intently as the time crawled forward, considering the variations of heart rate and calories burned and when I could stop and go home. It was not cool. I did three miles and walked home, careful to avoid eye contact with the dance class people who were now filing out of the studio.

Outside it was beautiful out in the last waning hours of light, and I knew what I had to do. I went home, dropped off my water bottle and headed out for a real run, outside, along the Hudson down to Battery Park and the Statue of Liberty. Running outside I felt weightless, free, legs reaching outward and into the breeze from the river. The setting sun cast a warming glow on the bricks and glass of lower Manhattan, and I was struck once again by the narrow and beautiful palette of this city: rich browns and ochres and reds, in contrast to the roiling blues of water and light reflected in glass windows. I kept running, the streetlights flicked on one by one, my shirt was sweaty but cool in the night air. I tell you, it felt so good.

I'm doing a half-marathon this weekend, so I was glad I could run eight miles or so last night. To be outside among the anonymous community of Hudson River runners was the perfect antidote to the wretchedness of the gym. It was as if I had burst through the mirrors of the studio and the metal and plastic of the treadmill to come back to reality, to forget the artifice and attitude of the gym to run into and through a place of nothing more than night, water, sky, and sweat.

It was perfect. And I bought a new batch of songs on the internet to get through it - here is a nice little night-running mix you may use for your own devices: "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" by Panic at the Disco, "Deja Vu," by Beyonce, "When You Gonna Give it Up To Me," by Sean Paul, "Me and My Gang" by Rascal Flatts, and --this is the kicker -- "Get Up," by Ciara. Ring the alarm, y'all.

Open letter

Dear Reader(s),

First of all, you look great. You look really tan and relaxed from the summertime. Oh, really? Wow. Yeah, timeshares sound really neat to me too. I'm glad you had the moxie to go ahead and do it though, that's really awesome. Totally. Totes.

Yeah, my summer was good too. I actually got married -- no, to L. Yep, her. No, it wasn't a secret engagement or anything. No, she isn't pregnant. I actually don't think that's funny, no. The wedding was unbelievable, though, I honestly don't think I could have asked for a more perfect day. Well, I was going to try to write some massive summary of my summer -- talking about the wedding, and MK.D.Day, and everything leading up to that, as well as the time a guy drove past me in a car and rolled down his window and said "blow me," but I actually don't think I'm going to do that. Yeah, I thought instead I would just return to the ol' blog in standard form and just write kind of randomly about the random things that happen. I actually just want to write better, that was the whole point. Oh, thank you. No, thanks for the tip, I will try to make it more interesting this time around. That's a really constructive suggestion, so thank you.

What else is new? Well, the social deck has been reshuffled. James has moved to Barcelona, Spain, to teach low-income students -- oh, I'm sorry, he's actually educating the wealthy upper-crust of international expat society in Spain. The real top layer of the paella, if you will. But I guess they need education too, lest they cuss out their groundskeepers in an ungrammatical way once their prize fighting bull-slaughtering toreadores are injured in some comically unfortunate polo mishap. So, they need learning too (and it is more pleasant for me to be resentful of Spaniards I don't know than to consider just how sad it is that James moved away). Anyways, I'm also in my second year of law school, looking for work for next summer, and my friend Dima is moving into the neighborhood. Also, since this is just like the season premier of some awesome TV show, please assume that everyone I know and love has gotten trendy new haircuts, and there's a new montage that plays with the theme song, complete with some of these pictures:




This pretty much sums up June through July: James and I, drinking, making faces. This actually sums up the entire thing.



This was a tame moment from MK.D.Day, the now-legendary bachelor trip. Note the ass-kicking shirt I am wearing, which James made for everybody.



This is me and my new blushing bride, L, in our new state of marital/conjugal bliss.

Welcome back, old friend(s). Thanks for sticking around. Let's meet up for a Jamba sometime, aight?

Summer break

Hey guys. I have decided to take a break from the blog for the summer. I realized that I live d the entire academic year perched in front of a computer, and the blog has been a great outlet for writing and trying to be funny and making notes to remember some of the smaller and weirder details of this brief moment of life. The summer is off to a great start - I'm enjoying my work as a legal intern, and the trip to Vegas was nothing short of epic - and part of that pleasure has been the emancipation from my laptop. I'm not lugging it all over town, I'm not compulsively checking eight different websites to procrastinate or avoid listening to professors. This freedom (which, pathetically enough, is something I actually do feel and enjoy) tastes good.

So a theme of this summer (besides the other themes, "You're Getting Married Really Soon," and "Be On Time for Work, Even Though You're Not Getting Paid") is "I Don't Need the Internet to Have Fun Or Be a Good Person." We'll see how it goes.

Anyways, take a look back here in mid-August. I will be a new, different, and married man, and I'm sure I will have something to say. Have a great summer.

Departure gate

In one sentence: Final exams are done, no grades yet, I submitted the worst piece on nonsensical drivel ever written for the writing competition at school, and now I am boarding a plane in five hours to go to Las Vegas, Nevada.

I guess there will be some sort of travelogue once I get back. But the great thing is this:

Summer. Has. Begun.

Movie review: "M:I:3"

On Friday we went to go see Tom Cruise's new movie, "Mission: Impossible: III: Die Hard with a: Vengeance." It was fantastic. I left the movie in such a good mood.

Given the events of the last year and a half, I went into the theatre completely braced for an unrelenting barrage of the Tom-Cruisiness of it all. And it was there: the bizarre intensity, the permanently clenched jaw muscle, the robot-like competence that allows him to jump off buildings, perform his own medical operations, sprint down the alleys of China like a freaking cyborg, etc. I never really bought into the fiction of the story, but it was a fun ride, and all the more ludicrous for Tom's real-life antics, the ones that fictional ol' "Ethan Hunt" is not quite equipped to handle (see couch-jumping, placenta-snacking, etc). Yet the context of real life really added to the movie. I would sit there and think, "Wow, Tom Cruise's wife looks like his real-life wife, Katie Holmes, the girl who used to be attractive before Tom cut all her synapses in half," or, "Hey, for a Scientologist, Tom Cruise is pretty handy with a difribillator."

The story of the movie was a pretty solid cat-and-mouse thing, with some good-looking women and exotic locales. Of course the end of the movie was a standard mess of betrayals and double-crossings, and I'm not quite sure who was a bad guy, how bad they were, etc, but I'm not there to diagram the thing, I'm there to binge on popcorn and laugh at the wooden exposition. But, there were some unexpectedly awesome action sequences, and the movie took a few more risks than I was expecting. It was edgy in a cool way, and JJ Abrams knows how to weave an air-tight narrative. And I loved Philip Seymour Hoffman playing a total slouchy badass. Ever since the movie I've been trying to imitate saying his lines: "I'm going to kill her in front of you" (insufferable tight-lipped grin, head tilt, slight nod) "and then I'm going to kill you." Or something. It was like "kill you behind her, and when he comes back, then I'm going to kill him astride them both, and then kill them both, sequentially" or something like that. He was a really bad guy.

Anyways, the movie is awesome. If you've ever been a 12 year-old male, or been involved with one, you'll love it.

Dispatches from finals

1. The night before the day before my first exam, I had another dream about my teeth falling out. This is my standard dream of anxiety and stress. In the dream I realized that a hearty chunk of one of my front teeth was gone, and when I looked at it more closely, I saw there was a gray spot in the enamel of this poor beleaguered tooth. I touched the gray spot with a finger and the tooth broke and fell out of my mouth. It was traumatic and I woke up really, really anxious, and the feeling didn't quite leave me all day. I remember learning from a dream interpretation book - or maybe it was a gypsy, I can't remember - that a lot of people have stress dreams of their teeth falling out, and let me tell you, that dream book or gypsy was right.

2. Two days ago some girl went batshit in the library. You're not supposed to bring food or drink in here (here, the library -- it's 7 pm on friday and I've been here 11 hours, dear reader -- I don't like to work this hard) but this girl walked in carrying an iced coffee. The librarian told her she couldn't have the beverage in here, and she got pretty snappy with him and kept moving. He followed her, and seconds later she was screaming and cussing him out, and then she threw her iced coffee at the librarian. Apparently at that point she sat down and maniacally began typing really loudly. Eventually an entire posse of librarians came and escorted her out, and now she has to meet with the dean after exams are done.

How hysterical is that. Everyone was hoping it was a girl in their section, since hopefully her meltdown would translate to her GPA and it would be good for the curve. Anyway, the story spread like wildfire that day -- I got an email from our third-year mentor about it that afternoon. From my perch in the library I had heard someone either laughing or screaming, I couldn't tell. But no matter how I'm doing, at least I can hopefully assume I'm doing better than her.

3. Step class last night -- and this is ridiculous, I know, but it's true -- was a musical journey. I swear to God, I came out of there feeling spent and exhausted and happy and like I had just lived a thousand lifetimes. I think it's the accumulation of stress and need for physical relief. Now my question is, is there a way to do this competitively? I mean, if you're not a black girl? Let me know. And wish me luck -- next exam is on Monday, then Thursday.

Rules for finals

1. Don't panic.
2. Don't try to divide your study time incrementally per credit hour per day.
3. Don't think about the math at all -- for example, how many less days you studied for your 6-credit course than you did for your 4-credit course -- this is not a productive line of thought.
4. Bring your own lunch.
5. If you know people who are sick, stay away from them. If you see someone who is ill walking towards you along the sidewalk, cross the street. It doesn't matter where you're going.
6. If you happen to eat in the cafeteria, even though you brought your own lunch, don't pay attention to the little table-fulls of students chittering away behind a mess of papers, binders, and laptops. Don't look to see if they take the same classes you do. Don't judge them based on the ugliness of their sweatshirts or even try to guess how long it's been since they've washed their hair. Just keep your head down and eat your sandwich.
7. Maintain a regular schedule. Say, "I'll work eight hours every day, and that will probably be enough," and try to convince yourself that this is true.
8. Recall that to most adults, and nearly everyone you see on the streets, in the subway, or even in your own apartment, your final exams don't really matter.
9. When you hear someone talking about something you don't know, or someone asks a question that you consider confusing and/or dumb, think: "I'm not going to listen to this chickenhead!" and pretend that instead of their words, all you can hear is "BAWK BAWK BAWK."
10. Don't compare study methods with other people. Learning about someone's else color-code post-it system or meticulous transcription of the entire textbook will not help you.
11. Smile even when you don't mean it. If you have to be anyone, be the happy one.
12. Don't panic.

Worst haircut ever

Yesterday I went to get a haircut at one of the barber shops staffed by Russian emigres. As I sat down in the chair, the hair cutter, Gregory, asked me how I was doing, and I said I was doing fine. Then he asked me what I wanted, so I told him to keep it short around the sides and back with the clippers, and then let it go a little longer on top and use the scissors. He said that sounded good, and started fussing around with the clippers or something. Then he said to me:

"You're hair's thinning on top, huh?"

What. Oh, hell no. Inside it felt like someone had stuffed an ice sculpture into my chest cavity. "Huh," I said. "Hmm mmmm. Huh." Gregory pressed on and started doing his work. In my head, people were screaming. I was determined to produce no bodily reaction to what he had said, even though I desperately wanted to grab the mirror out of his hands and check out what the hell was happening on the top of my head, holding him at bay, if necessary, with his own scissors.

As the haircut progressed I thought I was doing really well at staying calm until I noticed the beads of sweat on my forehead. "Excuse me," I said and I brought my arm up from under my smock and wiped off my brow. "It's pretty warm out," I said, although it clearly wasn't. After he finished, I got the hell out of there as quickly as I could, gingerly patting different areas of my skull to gauge any possible differences in hair density and/or volume.

So basically, this was the most emotionally taxing haircut of my life. It was like a kick in the shins all day, and it ushered in a really lame pity party where I felt bad for myself and mourned the loss my youth and whatever good looks I think I'm hanging on to. I was mad at the guy for saying such a dumb and callous thing (what was I supposed to reply? "Oh, you're right, Gregory, guess I don't need a haircut after all, sorry to waste your time, and by the way, nice English skills"?) and I was mad at myself for nursing such a gaping Achilles' heel of vanity.

I called L, I called my sister, I called my parents. They reassured me I was fine and that they had never noticed a problem. Doing some contortions in the bathroom making use of the double mirror, I checked out the scene on my scalp and I guess things are acceptable, I don't know. I've had 26 years of decent hair and I already have picked my spouse. I can't let myself dwell on something I have no control over. But I told L that it is up to her to make sure my haircut/style is appropriate to whatever amount of hair I actually have. I don't want to wake up in ten years and realize I've been combing over the dry, pristine, milky white hairlessness of my scalp for all that time. I also told James to keep an eye on this as well, because frankly I would not sleep well if I did not have an emergency backup vanity patrol.

So that was my Sunday. An offhanded remark and some serious emotional scarring. And you know what the damnedest part is? I still gave the guy a totally decent tip.

Movie review: "Sir! No Sir!"

Last night we saw a documentary called "Sir! No Sir!" about the anti-war protest movement among active duty soldiers and military personnel during the Vietnam era. It was a good documentary, very intense, the kind of movie that makes you feel like the world is a cold and dangerous place. The director actually introduced the film at the theater, which was pretty cool. He, like most of the people in it, were overgrown hippies who still wore their leftiness in ironic fedoras, buttons, vests, t-shirts, or facial hair manifestations.

This movie got me thinking a lot. I really admired the soldiers featured in the movie -- they really grappled with the morality of what they were doing and why they were there, and when they reached the unpleasant conclusion that they wrong, they tried to correct their mistakes. I think now we look back on that movement and it's seen as something to apologize for or make fun of -- these dirty, lazy hippies high on pot and carelessly fighting against some kind of vague, suit-wearing Man. But there was a lot of thought and compassion there, and I had never really thought about that before. They even interviewed Jane Fonda and I found myself appreciating what she tried to do.

At the end of the film they talked about the old myth of the Vietnam soldier coming home from the front in San Francisco, and being spit on in the airport by some bedraggled hippie chick. But this never happened, according to one sociologist featured in the film. The soldiers themselves made their opposition well known, through demonstrations, petitions, the underground press, and sometimes acts of civil disobedience or criminality. They even had some touching footage of a USO-type tour through Asia, of which Jane Fonda was a part, bless her heart, where anti-war entertainers would rally the troops, protest the actions of the government, and reassure the soldiers that they were loved and would be welcomed home with compassion. There were ideas and information there that I had never really considered before.

To understand the moral uneasiness these soldiers felt as they did their job and killed their enemies was powerful. It was extremely disheartening to think of the civilian and military leaders who sent them to fight for cynical reasons and with little plan and hope for success. The parallels to our current situation were all too vivid.

Anyways, it was worth seeing. More information can be found here.

Geriatric Easter

I was the youngest person at our family Easter celebration this year. One person in her eighties, five in their seventies, two in their fifties, one forties, one thirties, and me. I had a few odd conversations that reminded me that there is so much I don’t know about life, and that being a precocious 26-year old doesn’t count for much in comparison to the slow accumulation of waking up and getting out of bed every day for the better part of a century. You see some things, during all that time.

On the car ride down my great-aunt was saying how she feels so tired all the time. She actually said she felt ready to move on. My parents, joshingly, were chiding her about not meaning what she said. But she replied, “You don’t know how it feels to get up every day.” She talked about how her husband died too soon, and how yesterday she was at his gravesite and said, “Where in the world are you, Dan?” And believe me, that shut up everybody in the car.

Later on in the day I was talking to my grandfather, who is one of the best men I’ve ever known, who is like a second father to me. I carry his name and I am so proud of that. He was giving me his standard talk (or lecture, let’s keep it real) about work and preparation and life and love and family and generosity. I actually got to tell him some things I’ve never said before to him – about how well he has done for this family, about what he has made possible – and he told me that even though he doesn’t need to work any more, he still does it out of love. How much he loves us and wants us to be happy. He talked a lot about working hard in school and making sure you have a fallback plan, general lessons for life he’s been telling me so many years now.

At one point he took a weird turn for the macho: “You don’t want to be fuckin’ cutting down trees for your life, you know?” I had no idea what to say. What was he talking about? What’s the proper reply to that? “No, I sure fuckin’ don’t”? We don’t cuss in this family. But like a Cadbury crème egg, I know that behind that crusty chocolate exterior of bumbled curse words is the warm gooey caramel center of familial duty and the love of a strong and gentle patriarch, in the best sense of the word. Then he was like, "You want to be successful in your life, and happy, and then you can decide if you want to go cut some wood, you know what I'm saying?" Actually, um, no. I don't.

On the way home my mom asked me what we had been talking about, and we laughed about it in the car. He also told me he was proud of me, very proud, and my mom said he had never said that to her. I guess that is true, and even if it is, perhaps it just shows you how much people can grow and change and learn through every one of their days on earth. It was quite a day.

Book review: "The Namesake"

This from Saturday, April 15:

Since I’ve been home for the Easter weekend, I reread Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel “The Namesake.” I started on the train yesterday and finished it this afternoon, reading on the patio watching the sun go down. Sometimes I would look up from the reading and see a robin on the roof or a squirrel by the trees – it was great.

I first read this book in August 2004 in Rehoboth Beach. L and I were trapped inside because of a storm, and it took all the willpower I had to not devour the novel in one or two sittings. This time, though, I abandoned all restraint and consumed the novel the way I had hoped to. Even on a second reading, I was amazed at the scope of what Lahiri has done – in a mere 300 pages she covers two generations of a family, leapfrogging through time but still giving the reader enough to feel invested.

I think of all the novels I have ever read (ok, since becoming an adult), I have never been more affected emotionally by a book. Sure, I’ll give a good cry at “Stepmom” (damn you, TBS, for your constant airings) but books have never really hit me at the core. This one, though, put a lump in my throat several times over. The relationship between father and son reaches into a huge weak spot of mine, and the discussion of names and what people call us and how we call ourselves is also very familiar to me. It’s funny that when I’m home I respond to nicknames so instinctually, and how weird it is to hear my parents call me by my given name when we’re out with people.

Anyways, “The Namesake” remains an amazing book. Thematic elements of family, migration, trains, naming, love, maturity, books, reading, gifts. I love it.

Bad dog

I was walking to school today along Broadway when I saw several blind people getting off a bus. One had a white cane, but three or four had seeing eye dogs. They all got off the bus and were walking along, and I was admiring the concentration and aplomb of their seeing eye dogs, who were plodding steadily forward, when one of them (the dogs) suddenly turned to sniff the legs of a mailbox. The dog stopped dead in its tracks and the blind person behind it said, "Whoa!" and kind of stumbled into the dog, who clearly had no intention of moving.

At this point I kind of laughed a little bit, which I hope those blind people with their heightened sense of hearing didn't detect. I have never seen a bad seeing eye dog before. I mean, this one obviously missed a day of training, and he probably won't last long "out in the field," as they say. Maybe he was new, I don't know. I'm sure they straightened it all out in the end.

Waiting/David Gray/registration

Right now I'm sitting in the library at school, done with all the work I am going to do for the day. It's 5:37. At 6:15 I'm meeting a bunch of my classmates at a bar where our TA is buying us drinks. It should be fun. I am disappointed to miss going to the gym, though.

I'm listening to the newest David Gray album, "Life in Slow Motion," on the Ipod. It is so nice to have new David Gray music to listen to -- I find his voice so unique and comforting, and I like the mix of live and electronic instrumentation. He puts you in a good, mellow place. His album "White Ladder" is definitely one of my top recordings ever -- there was nothing I listened to more my third and fourth years of college -- and even the melancholy and sadness has a warm tinge to it now. So I'm glad DG is back.

Well, honestly, that's about all I have to say. Oh, I registered for classes this morning. A frustrating process but now I've got Corporations, Copyright Law, International Law, and Race and the Law for the fall. I am currently tired from waking up earlier than usual, and being stressed out and angry way earlier in the usual. Who cusses at 7:15 in the morning? I do, buddy, when it's a morning like this one. But then at school today everyone was commiserating and bemoaning the fact that none of us got what we wanted, and that we were all cussing at the computer and feeling our blood pressure skyrocket as out internet connections failed and the law school site froze or expired. As a result, people were walking around with glassy eyes today whispering things like, "I have 8 classes on Tuesdays," "I signed up for medical school classes by mistake," or, "I think I accidentally withdrew myself from school."

I wish I could go home now but I'm sticking around. I can't think of any more websites to visit, and after a couple of very long blog entries I wanted to dash something off quick. So here you go. Hooray for David Gray.

A weird evening with Toni Braxton

The setting: The Nokia Theatre in Times Square, probably the coolest underground lair in all of midtown. It was like the underground hotspot at Epcot Center - undulating ceiling, subtle lighting that shifted to cover the whole color spectrum, cheerful, good-looking employees in black. Eight dollar cans of beer. The main theatre area was suprisingly small, to the point where I looked around and thought: "Oh, poor Toni." The crowd size was about equivalent to, I don't know, say, Back to School Night. There were really cool chandeliers on the ceiling, comfortable seats, and intricate shadows thrown on the walls by the lighting systems. Nokia is doing well.

The crowd: I expected it to be another buppie crowd: young black men and women, well-dressed, stylish, fit, like a Terry McMillan novel come to life, sauntering and strutting in complicated hair and suits white men would never dare to don. And there was a significant buppie contingent, as well as ... middle-aged white couples. Who I guess really enjoyed "Unbreak My Heart" for three weeks in 1996, because otherwise why are they there. It was a bizarrely diverse crowd. More immediately, we were sitting in the back near a strong group of Proud Black Women who were very fun and sang every word, and the gay dude to our left (who, tragically, came and left alone) was actually quivering with pleasure during the concert.

The opener: was a comedian, Kyle Grooms. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and was generous with my laughter, and had a good time. He had this great joke about being "fuck-it drunk": when you're so drunk, you just say "fuck it" and don't even care; that's the point when you're dancing when there isn't even any music, you're just fuck-it drunk. I need to work this into my lexicon. Anyways, the comedian was way better than the standard hack opening R&B singer, who drags you through ten songs you don't know, including six ballads you never want to hear again and vocal gymnastics you didn't ask to hear in the first place. Put the melisma back in the bag, homie.

The Toni: OK, this was kind of a weird concert. She started out with "You're Makin Me High" and "Take This Ring," the two songs I was most excited to hear, and she was prancing all around, sort of dancing. She had two white chicks as her dancers, and she made the backup singers, two tall black girls (who happened to be her sisters, she said), dance as well, although they clearly weren't exactly Madonna, or even Paula Abdul, dance-wise. (Poor Toni can't even afford backup dancers and backup singers, y'all. It's that serious.) But the performances were awesome, the choreography was hot, instrumentation solid, but then ...umm... you realized.... Toni... wasn't really..... singing. Oh, no. Oh, snap. We are not listening to pre-recorded vocal tracks for this whole thing. This is not an Ashlee Simpson concert! No!

After the opening aerobics she settled down, flipped a switch, and actually sang. The difference was clear, and then it got pretty awesome. Here's the rundown: despite her cold, her voice sounded good and she hit all the notes; she had many costume changes, but she's looking a little thick in the middle; L thinks she demanded backup dancers who were kind of hefty so she would look better, although I disagreed; she played a lot of her early stuff, and the crowd loved it. She invited people onstage to sing and dance, and she wandered through the audience, which was at first endearing and then weird. She sat on a lot of laps, received a lot of bouquets. There was a crazy skinny white bitch who security was pulling back. There was a lesbian who looked like Jabba the Hutt who brought Toni flowers before she tried to, you know, eat her. There were cool dudes and sad dudes, and a dude who brought his son onstage. It was like Toni had decided, "Hey, my career's not quite where it used to be, maybe tonight let's just get to know each other a little bit.

Besides the audience antics and the strong set list, Toni was right there with all her singing tics that I love ("ooh," "yeah," "Woo!"). The audience would even jump in and supply some of them, which was awesome. We were so on point. But she had some diva tendencies, though, like the two fans (machines, not concert-goers) blowing air towards her during a few of the more torchy, ridiculous ballads. She talked to the audience in a weird way, kind of like a children's tv host, or a weatherman, I don't know. When she sang "You Mean the World to Me," she had this intense "You mean the world to me! You mean the world to me! You do!" thing that was a bit much. (Kind of like Oprah's "You get a car! You get a car!" tourettic episode.) And she had one song where she made a saluting hand gesture every time she talked about soldiers, which, as a Boy Scout, I found off-putting. Speaking of gestures, though, she definitely had the Mariah Carey disease where you can't really move your limbs in a normal standard way, and instead look like your puppetmaster thought it would be funny if he made you do the Macarena. It was comical, to say the least.

But am I mad that she had no encore? Or that she didn't sing as much from the new album as I would have liked? Or that I didn't get to go up there and sing and dance for Toni? No, I am not. For all of its faults and oddities, I would never have missed it. You can't miss Toni Braxton.