Wearing a Tuxedo Is Never As Cool As James Bond Makes It Look

This coming weekend I will be wearing a tuxedo for approximately 18 hours out of a possible 48. I have never worn a tux for more than an hour or two at a time, (for a prom I shouldn’t have gone to, as it turned out) let alone close to a day’s worth of formality. I do have to admit that my penguinesque getup doesn’t compare to the real penguins, who have to stand over an egg for days on end with triple digit wind-chills below zero while they wait for that year’s girlfriend to bring them back some grub as I saw in March of the Penguins. I’m still not looking forward to it. I’ll be accompanying the chorus in trying to sing the choral movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony (which for some may be considered just as tedious). The tuxedo is really the epitome of formal dress, and theoretically makes everyone debonair. This is not the case with me. Of course my girlfriend tells me otherwise.
When I climb into my newly purchased tux, I want to feel like James Bond. I really wanted the white-dinner-jacket-with-the-red-carnation look, but there is a dress code for these performances: Black tie. Not: stand-out-from-everyone-else-on-the-stage. Someday. Someday I will be James Freakin’ Bond. I want to walk into a room and order the same drink all the time. Possibly unfortunately that drink of choice is a Shirley Temple with a splash of vodka. Not exactly a manly drink like scotch or whiskey. The drink preference isn’t the only thing standing between Bond’s Aston Martin and me. I need the suave coolness to win at Bacharach. I also need a license to kill, not to mention a few hundred grand for the sweet ride.
Now that I have my own tuxedo I’m hoping I don’t get fat. It’s one of those male clothing purchases that should be a once-every-ten(plus)-years transactions. There’s no way the total future wearing of this bad boy will surpass this weekend’s usage. If I go to a formal wedding that will be a max of a few hours. If I go to a formal dinner, that’s a couple hours at most. At none of these potential events will I be trying to sing as loud as humanly possible to be heard over a fifty-piece orchestra.
The actual performance can only be strenuous at best. Supposedly, we have to sit on the stage under intense lighting in seats packed together like sardines for roughly an hour. If this were to only happen once I’d be cool with it. The fact that I will repeat the same routine five times over the next three days isn’t daunting as much as it is exhausting to think about. I can only expect that by the fifth time in three days my cummerbund will be a wrinkled mess, my white shirt will have a nice brownish-yellow ring around the collar, and my butt will have fallen asleep so many times only a timpani could wake it.
For this special occasion of buying a tux and singing with a professional orchestra my mom thought it would be a good idea to have something unique to my ensemble. My new tuxedo dress socks are Crown-Royal-bag-purple. These will be my conversation piece. Some may say, “Hey. Check out Ethan’s socks! He’s crazy…in an awesome-thinks-he’s-at-the-Grammys way.” This is my hope. More likely no one will notice unless I bring them out from under my cuffs.
James Bond took the tuxedo to a higher level. I can only hope to get a running start, jump out of an airplane, land on a bus with no breaks heading for a cliff and save the nuclear warhead from inside of it to approach the suave coolness of Bond in a tux. But, damnit I’m going to try every time I put that sucker on. What’s the point otherwise?

An Open Letter to My Procrastination Ability

My Dearest Procrastination,
You allow me to do the things I really want to do; you allow me the freedom to surf The Web for hours on end so as to avoid doing a simple three-paragraph essay for Renaissance Lit. class. I simultaneously love and despise you. Sometimes it seems like you team up with my A.D.D. to create the Axis of No Productive Work and wage a war against my Better Judgment. I can’t really fault you for this. I’ve been developing and perfecting your every technique since I knew what homework was. Something else has always been able to catch my attention easily, whether it’s a baseball game, cartoons, just finding something to eat, or going to the bathroom when I didn’t really need to.
You have tricks too! Just when I start to feel like I’m getting things done you pop up and reel me back in to being worthless. To be honest, you’re kinda rude about it. You don’t say “Please?” Sometimes, though, my Brain Power wins and shuts the door in your face after you’ve pressed me to a deadline. You come in different forms. You know me exceedingly well. You only have one goal, and that is the antithesis of what I have set out to do.
Over the years I have tried to get rid of you to no avail. There have been stretches where you’ve taken a vacation and I’ve had extremely productive spells. But those never last for long. You keep coming back like a homeless man to a shelter for dinner. You can survive on your own for a little while but you always find your way back.
I just wish I could control you better. You’re unruly. You come and go as you please and do whatever you want whenever you want. We’ve shared some good times, like the science fair of ’97, the history paper of ’01, the permission slip of ’95. And who could forget the infamous mowing the lawn incident of 2000?
What should I do with you? I don’t know if I could kick you to the curb. We’ve grown together through so many years that bringing you down would only allow Better Judgment to rule my days. Let’s be honest, I don’t really want that. Although, you have taught me some good lessons when it comes to this year’s music independent project. Research can only be put off so long. I’ve tried to push you away but at times it was like trying to push a brick wall.
Even as I try to complete this paragraph you make me want to do other things. I know I have to finish, I know this is due, but you keep telling me to “Ethan…put it off. You know you want to check out Facebook for no real reason. You know you’re thirsty. You know you’re uncomfortable in that chair and want to lie down in your comfy bed.” Yes. Yes, I do know all these things but I have to push you away for the time being and then we can get back to doing unnecessary things. We can make sure that my ten-page paper….oh crap there goes my cell. I bet you did that intentionally. I guess I’ll never escape your clutches.
With fond regards…eventually,
Ethan

Indie to Pop

Over the past four to six years there has been a steady rise in “Indie” music. This term is technically shorthand for any music released on an independent label. These smaller labels are numerous and almost never heard about unless they have a few stellar artists. Even then, their budgets seem like a raindrop in the deluge that is a major label’s finances. In this period of time I have steadily grown to enjoy these lesser-heard bands and artists. I’m never trying to be cooler than the mainstream, nor do I think I am above bands that get significant radio play. The music is better.
I enjoy the hunt for these bands and records. I enjoy the looks I get in Barnes & Noble when I ask about The Boy Least Likely To, Ghostface Killah, MF Doom, Neutral Milk Hotel, Band of Horses, and Tapes ‘N Tapes. No matter whom I ask, the response is always the same: “who/what? Could you repeat that? Is that the band or the album?” This is equal parts frustrating and amusing. It gives me a weird sense of pride that I’m not just another John or Jane looking for the latest U2 or Kelly Clarkson disc. This pride comes from the idea that, with indie music, I share a secret with a smaller society of music geek. And let’s face it, that’s what I am and huge Music Geek.
I enjoy the music more than the growing culture of Indie. It’s cool to be anti-mainstream in some regards. I’m mainstream in almost every facet of my life except for the music I enjoy the most. I’m content with this. I seek out new sounds that have been deemed, for one reason or another, “not ready for radio consumption.” The indie culture can have a better-than-thou attitude that doesn’t align with my morals. I would actually prefer to educate more people about this music I covet and track like a groupie. If I could teach every Coldplay-lover about The Go! Team I’d feel, in a way, like I was educating the masses. But on the flip side, they would no longer be “mine.” That’s my main problem: when indie goes popular.
The progression of the rare few indie bands that become mainstream generally follow the same path. The band starts out small, works their way up by touring tirelessly, word-of-mouth, and small pieces of press. At which point, the press builds and builds until they have a feature article in Rolling Stone or Q (the best UK music magazine). This string of events strips away the “indie” from the band and it becomes (now) alternative or even pop. More people knowing nets the band more exposure and more money. In most cases they get a new record deal and have to conform to what the label wants so their subsequent albums are never quite as good or original. Pop music is too polished. Too clean. Too produced. The raw energy and brash production makes me feel like they are actually making music. In pop they aren’t making music, they’re making something that is metaphorically washed, re-washed, tumbled dry, hung, ironed, dry-cleaned, and plastic wrapped. All for the (growing) unreasonable price of $15.
I’m convinced this steady rise and changes have all come about with the advent of the Internet. A band no longer has to rely on print media to get noticed. There is so much self-promotion that can occur on a scant budget. The innumerable resources now available for making, recording, producing, and distributing, et al. are all at one’s fingertips. The idea that music would be so easy to get via downloads (illegally or service provided) was unfathomable just a few years ago.
I deem the rise of indie as a progression in the course of pop music and culture. The vast array of new music that is being made and is readily available has been given more and more notice. The concept of “indie” is now a known commodity and bigger labels are starting to take notice whether by signing some of these lesser-heard bands or by buying their smaller label just to make some more money. Although some of my favorites might become more popular or mainstream over the next few years at least I can say that I heard them before anyone else.

Folded Chips

If you’ve ever seen me eat potato chips you may think discrimination abounds in my everyday life. I subconsciously (and consciously) separate chips into two categories: “normal” and “folded.” These folded chips are the ones that look as if the circle of the chip has been flipped in half onto itself. For some reason it’s more fun to eat the folded ones. I save them for last. They have more crunch to them, and thus are more satisfying to eat.
A friend once inquired why I did this after she noticed that I was “playing favorites” with the chips. We went on to have a philosophical debate about my chip profiling. I tried to explain that it was just a quirky eating habit. I also qualified my response with the idea that I find it weird to eat Pringles because they are all the same. They’re like what would’ve happened had Hitler had his way with the world: a master race of potato chips. On the other hand, she thought that maybe it spoke to a larger idea that I was a very biased person in other aspects of my life. I thought that this was possible, but maybe I was less conscious about larger things than various chips.
I explained to her that the folded chips were more interesting. They have more personality. At this point in time, if she didn’t know me, she would have got up from the table and told me that I was crazy. The folded chips had to get that way some how, right? The unfolded ones took the normal path to Chiphood. They were cut from the potato and deep-fried, end of story. The folded ones could have been unfolded at one point and therefore got their uniqueness during a phase of their conception. Other unfolded chips bullied them around; pressured them into changing, or just got caught at the bottom of the crate and folded under the weight of the others. I wanted to give time to the possibilities of the folded chips’ stories.
I don’t persecute others nor do I make insensitive derogatory comments. I treat people equally and with respect. Unfortunately I can’t say the same for the way I eat chips. The folded ones end up having a slightly longer life than the regular ones.

Sorry Joey I'm Docking Your Grade Because You're An Asshole

I’ve never gotten a paper back from a professor that says, “your writing is exceptional, but I’ve heard of your obnoxious white-male patriarchal bullshit, so in light of that I’m giving you a C-.” My experiences have taught me that learning in college isn’t only about textbooks. On the contrary, there is a greater scope to college learning that includes developing and shaping personal character, which is why professors should care about their students’ character even though it’s not in their job description.
Character takes many variable forms. In general, certain traits or habits can be associated with “good” or “bad” character. People usually tend toward one side of the Character Spectrum. I believe, for the sake of argument, that a student with good character is also a scholarly one who’s studious, courteous, comes to class, participates in class, turns in assignments, asks questions, is receptive to criticism, and genuinely wants to learn. In contrast, a good indicator of character tending to the Bad Side is a kid that half-asses pretty much everything, walks into a 90-minute class 30 minutes late as if nothing is wrong, falls asleep in class consistently, gives more excuses than punctual work, and is the first out of the room even when they’re the furthest from the door. It’s troublesome for a professor to know if a student is doing certain things because they care more about learning or more about their grade. These various actions often sway the thoughts of a professor.
A professor’s character is equally hard to judge. I’ve found the best professors challenge their students intellectually, figure out ways to connect with them individually and have enough charisma that students rarely hit the Mute button. There's something in those great professors that makes the students want to excel. I’ve been lucky enough to have a few professors like this. I feel the need to give 100%, 100% of the time for their class. I want to impress them, show them I care, that they’re great at their job, and that I appreciate everything they do. Character is a funny thing because it’s extraordinarily subjective. I’ve had a couple professors whom I wanted to tell that they couldn’t teach their way out of a paper bag. Except, this assessment of their teaching isn’t a measure of whether they’re a good person. I’d like to think that the great professors are of great character, but what they’re like outside of the classroom goes mostly unknown.
Why does character matter? Does it matter? Do I wish all my professors were pot-smoking-drunks? Would it be entertaining? Would I learn how to make a beer can into a bong? Would we even have class? Would the term “class” be replaced with “chill time”? Should a professor care if a student is an asshole if they produce “A” work? Should a professor care if a student litters, speeds, swears, smokes, does drugs, and drinks? Should a student care if a professor does any of those things?
Where do grades and character cross? It’s entirely possible that a student is “book-smart” and does extremely well on their report card but is a complete jerk and doesn’t care about their course at all. In turn, there are plenty of students that slip on turning things in on time and don’t have a 3.87 GPA, but take enormous interest in their classes, and are some of the best individuals around. Grading shouldn’t be contingent on character, but shouldn’t a person with better character be rewarded somehow? I soothe my psyche by assuming a professor would rather have great kids in their classes who foster interesting conversation than a bunch of one-dimensional workaholics that can’t see beyond their GPA.
The problem with professors caring about students’ character is that something so subjective is dependant on their own character. Does being a professor automatically make them a perfect judge of character? I tend to doubt it, because everyone likes to think they’re the best judge of character this side of the heavenly gates. It’s the same for students though. Just because you can’t believe any institution of higher learning would tenure such an imbecile, doesn’t mean the professor goes home at night and downloads child porn. On the other hand, professors should care about their students’ character and set an example for them because it’s a reflection of not only themselves but also their institution.
Good or bad character isn’t taught, nor can it be changed overnight. There isn’t much a professor can do to build good character in their students besides setting a superior example. Their character affects my respect for them, in and out of the classroom. Likewise students should be free to explore personal growth and learning without the worry their next grade is going to reflect their character development. Overall, I care whether or not my professor is a sleezeball. I just do.

OOOPS, Sorry I Shot You in the FACE

Vice President Dick Cheney shot a dude in the motherfucking face. Not the quails flying overhead, not even a goddamn extremity. Who the hell does that? What type of message does it send the country trying to hunt down terrorists when the second in command shoots a guy in the mug? It can either say: “we’re willing to shoot anyone, and don’t get in my way, you stupid asshole” or “I can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys even when they’re wearing bright orange hunting regalia.” Neither sounds great to me.
How does one shoot a person by accident, in the face no less? Well, first you have to start with a dash of conservative politics. I don’t know the exact figures, but I’ve met more conservative hunters than liberal ones. Then, mix in guns. Those conservatives loooooove their guns. Pretty much any guns too. They think any Tom, DICK, or Sally should be allowed anything below a rocket launcher. Evidently it helps to shoot someone in the face when you’ve had a few beers too. If the reason Cheney didn’t come out and say he popped a guy in the face for a whole day was because he was drinking, doesn’t that make you think he was blacked-out-loaded when the administration planned the invasion of Iraq?
The whole incident makes me think our VP is actually Elmer Fudd; hunting people not waskaly wabbbits. I would think in normal circumstances wouldn’t the perpetrator of shooting a guy in the face (accidentally or not) probably face (sorry for the awful pun) some sort of legal ramifications? Supposedly this guy he shot is, or should I was was, a friend? If he was a close friend, how do you apologize for something like that? The apology in college would be something like, “ohhhhh shit dude, fuck man, I’m soo sorry….want to grab another beer sometime? It’s totally my bad man.” The apology in the Adult World would be, “I’m terribly sorry for this tragic accident that should have been prevented by looking where I was pointing my gun when I fired it. I’ll pay for your medical bills.”
I wish I were a high-ranking politician, if only because I could play paintball with live ammunition. Do you think they killed any quail that day? Was it like touch football that gets out of hand and you say to your buddy, “awww c’mon it can’t hurt that much. Walk it off man.” It’s doubtful Cheney’s hunting pal was able to do much of anything after his run-in with the VP’s buckshot.

I Hate People

I hate people, but I love individuals. This mantra of mine has been in development since I was an early teenager. The philosophy stems from a wide variety of personal experiences and interactions with the public. As I turn 22 this week I feel like my experiences are only going to grow with people and their consistent terrible performance.
People are mean. People are inconsiderate. People are selfish. People are assholes. People are polluting our beautiful world. People commit rape, murder, arson, and rape. People are insensitive. People are numb. Why? Indifference. It doesn’t affect you, why should you care?
Individuals are generous, caring, loving, respectful, kind, helpful, thoughtful, and wonderful. These certain people are kept as close as possible and make the terrible world we live in all the more tolerable. In certain cases they even turn our little microcosms into the most splendid places anywhere.
How do I know this universal truth? I have seen it in action. Through working retail. Through people watching. Through living. People suck, but the little things are what keep me coming back for more. Somewhere along the way, out of nowhere an unexpected individual makes my mental burden light as a feather. These are the types of individuals that go unnoticed by people. People just want, want, want. What they need is a swift kick in the ass. Except, the individuals who are above that, and this fact is what makes them an individual and not one of the flock.
In the F&M community that we hold so dear I would consider there to be very few individuals. You can never know all of them and most likely they will go unnoticed. When I left high school I was desperate to leave the society of cliques. I had heard of this great place called College where people are free to choose who they spend their time with. Walk in different circles, start new, grow, develop, change and mature. Unfortunately, I have come to conclude that most need more than four years to go through this process, and some will need a lifetime.
What makes me superior? Nothing. But I do know that it is a personal goal to be one of these individuals that gives more than he takes. I’m not the Dali Llama with the flowing robes, the grace…. The miracles I hope to perform in my lifetime are ones that are on an individual basis. People are content just to be self-serving and make themselves happy. This is okay to an extent. Isn’t it more rewarding to make others happy and think of someone else for a change? Think for a moment, if people in the world worried about making others happy. They wouldn’t have to worry about making themselves happy because they’d have so many others already looking out for them.
I realize this holier-than-thou attitude may come off as brash, mean, or immature but it doesn’t come without firsthand experience. How many times has a door been shut in your face that could just as easily been held. How many times has someone said, “just do whatever, I’m on the cell.” How many times do you buy some underage punk beer so that you can get on their good side and meet his or her roommate? How many times a day do you think about how your actions make someone else feel?
Often people make decisions that end up hurting an individual. These individuals pour their being into making other people happy. Individuals are the ones that end up getting hurt, not the other thoughtless people. This sucks. If people took the time to step back, analyze their actions and think about an individual this scenario wouldn’t happen. But because people are so self-consumed conflict and contention are the end result.
Maybe you think I’m an asshole, maybe you think I’m the greatest thing since low-carb beer, sliced bread, the wheel, and obsessively flavored soda combined. Either way, I’m gonna keep trying to make you happy until I’m either too tired or too cynical to keep trying. If you want to give then give, but do it for them, not for you. Be an individual. Don’t fall into the crowd of people. And finally, that golden rule we learned in kindergarten just seems to ring so very true: Do unto others, as you would hope they’d do unto you.