The Hit List 6/13/06

6/12, 9:52 PM -- My head throbs like fucking hell. Technology hates me. All eloquency has flown out the window, leaving profanity in its wake.

Today, June 13, 2006, marks the last day I will ever have to step into a certain classroom. It is the last time I will ever attend the class-that-shall-not-be-named and be "taught" by she-who-shall-not-be-named. This certainly an occasion to rejoice.

A colony of ants, complete with larvae, has decided to inhabit the cold, steel interior of my mailbox. Those tiny black creepy crawlies thoroughly penetrated my mail, crawling in between the pages of Time and a hefty college viewbook. I am now officially scared to read them

Time critic Richard Schickel really likes the phrase "pretentious piffle." In his year-end wrap-ups, he's used it to describe Moulin Rouge!, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and I Heart Huckbees. But this guy loves Wes Anderson. Huh.

While listening to the director commentary on Amores Perros a few months ago, I jotted down a random phrase that the Innaritu had mentioned, something called "I'll Be Your Mirror." Since it was noted on one of those floating post-its, it invariably got lost in the strata of my computer desk. It was recently, through my random browsing of Limewire, that I realized it was a Velvet Underground song. Been addicted to Nico's warbling ever since.

Rejoice! My cinephiliac soul has finally seen salvation. As of today, I have access to the wonderful service of Netflix. In a mere two hours, my queue has already lengthened to 50+ and is sure to increase exponentially in the next week. Movie watching will now officially take over my life.

Wanted: Me, Myself, and I

This is another one of those lazy, summer afternoons when I have nothing to do but browse random xangas. In the midst of my reading, I envy the writing talent of some, disparage the lack thereof in others, and float off into metaphysical land. Except this isn’t a lazy summer afternoon;this is the day before English finals and I have yet to slap together an arguable thesis. Never mind that, there are much more important things to worry about.

Today I received my latest SAT scores in the mail and found that the College Board knew me as a jumble of numbers. My identity, in general, seems to be a mélange of arbitrarily chosen letters and numbers, adding up to a meaning I have yet to divine.

I don’t know who I am. I can tell you my vital stats: birthday, weight, height, weighted GPA, SAT scores, and whatnot. I can sort of tell you what I like: cinema, melancholy music, eating, easy puzzles, nifty ideas. But even that last list of “likes” I find hard to catalog. Notice the deliberate vagueness with which I describe myself; there are no definites, no clear-cut edges, no polished sheen. I feel like a blobular mass, moving lethargically along, picking up bits and pieces I encounter, only to ooze them out two feet later.

My identity is…

I can’t finish this sentence. I don’t know. Being in high school with people I have known for almost five years, I feel a burden of expectations upon me. My friends, my acquaintances, my classmates have already ascribed me a certain personality—a tough shell of expectations, from which I cannot and do not wish to escape. The shell is restraining, but comfortable.

This is why I almost fear college. In talking about Ghost World, a viewer commented how it “told the harshest truth of all: you drift away from your high school friends.” I’m only paraphrasing, as I have a special ineptitude in recalling quotes, but sitting here at the end of junior year, I find that a harsh truth indeed.

In my recommendation form for Steege, I said that I am ready for college because I am ready for independence. But independence is like being dropped in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and told to swim to shore. While I certainly do not want my parents hovering in a nearby boat, I don’t want to swim alone either. How do I know I can reach the shore of adulthood? What if it becomes an Odysseus-like journey except without the final triumph of returning home? I may be entranced by Circe. I may be trapped and eaten by a menacing Cyclops. I may forever stay on the island of Immaturity. My words on that form were obviously blatant lies through the keyboard.

Maybe I find defining identity such a difficult task because I am a normal, boring child. College will perhaps bring the bloom of a delayed adolescence. I will have my bad poetry phase. My anorexia and pink miniskirts phase. My barefoot phase. My punk rock phase. My femi-nazi phase. My mad scientist phase. My blank slate phase. My fashionlogie phase. My red balloons and glow sticks phase. My black eyeliner phase.

Moments of lucidity flee from my grasp. I must return to this final English assignment while some semblance of intelligence remains.

Better or Otherwise

There are certain people in the world who operate on a plane high above the conglomerate masses. Whether this plane be of intelligence, emotion, or morality, society is torn between awe and disgust at these figures standing above us.

When say society is torn, I mean that one's views on such a person depends on the individual in question. We can all admire those people who are are clearer smarter and more principled, yet do not place themselves above others. There is another breed of people entirely, who know fully well that they are better than the masses, and do nothing to hide it. These people will drag your face through the dirt and sully your conscience to exert their superiority. And indeed, these people are often master manipulators. Whether this is their intent or not, encounters with such people invariably leave you feeling like a low, low person.

Aspiring to a higher moral character is essentially a self-defeating purpose. Satisfaction derived from being moral will be entirely negated by any acts, or witnessings acts of, immorality. Wasn't English class this year a treatise on the trappings of morality? Did Anthony not deign Stevens a pathetic character for his facade of dignity? Did morality not crumble in the face of tyranny or anarchy? Did it not disappear with the first blooms of ambition? Wasn't the medieval literature a scathing satire on chivalry? Only those crusty Victorians found morality a worthy pursuit, and even then, the exercise of morality led to self-destruction and death.

I don't claim to be an especially moral person. I probably don't have the right to pass such judgment on others. But I doneed to review for my English final.

It's All Downhill Now

Euphoria over finding $2 The Royal Tenenbaums Criterion DVD completely negated by impending French final.
Blood pressure at stratospheric levels.
If love can squish you flat as a pie, anger can squish you flat as a pancake.
Well-read people like to write slash.
Olga is in love.
With Ben Folds.
Not happy. Not happy. Not happy.
Too late. Too early.
[/emo pseuo-poetry]

The Hit List 6/8/06

Due to Blogger being down this afternoon, I managed to write an entire entry in MS Word, while simultaneously procrastinating on my recommendation letters and final review.

Who knew the combination of Diet Coke and mint Mentos was so potent? I love these guys in their super serious lab coats and goggles. With their popularity exploding in the last week, it seems we must be prepared for a shortage of Diet Coke and Mentos in the coming months.

When I got the mail yesterday, I found Sarah Jessica Parker grinning back at me on the slick blue cover of Good Housekeeping magazine. Convinced that this magazine was wrongly stuffed into my mailbox, I found the subscription label to bear the name of noneother than my good ol' dad. I must get to the bottom of this mystery.

Shudder. Why is Frankenstein continuing to plague the ongoings of my life? Guster's "One Man Wrecking Machine" is a lovely and intensely cute tribute to the book. And very rare indeed considering our 12 year age difference, my brother and I both love it. Too bad the music video is better than the actual book.

French class today was a sort-of party unholily married to a National French Exam award ceremony. Ate lots of sugar. Was pleasantly surprised.

Bye bye Miss American Pie...stupidly addictive song.