Musings on Rhythm Corner

Farewell

2007-06-05T20:39:00.000-07:00

Seeing Seattle

2007-06-04T14:11:00.000-07:00

This last weekend, I had the wonderful opportunity to fly to Seattle and visit my brother, the internettally renowned Tolkien Boy. At the conclusion of our activities, he and I posted a joint blogpost on his prestigious blog, the Broken Arms. Here, on the off chance that someone reads mine before his, is that post, with only a few minor edits (including a few layout glitches). So sit back, hold onto your dictionaries, and enjoy the show.

TOLKIEN BOY: Hello, Bassercussionist readers! The ever-bold-and-brotherly Bassercussionist, feeling a bit tied to the rain-shadowy world of Utah and its environs, decided to transcend his earthly imperatives and wing his wilful way Pacific-Northwest-ward. All things being done in preparation for his upcoming religious revivalisms, I am honored to be the featured guest writer here at Rhythm Corner. Say something for the crowd, Bassercussionist.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Um...would you like me to rise to your incredibly transcendent vocabulary, or would you like me to avoid the charade altogether?

TOLKIEN BOY: I would never advise you to avoid the joint efforts of Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn, you know that. Constant though the changes may be to my psyche through the grimness of perpetual Seattle greyness, that at least is a constant.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Uhh...okay (wondering what Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn have to do with it). Well, I would like to say that I am honored and privileged indeed to have Tolkien Boy accompanying me here at Rhythm Corner. But a greater honor and privilege is to be related to this brilliant and ever-inspiring author.

TOLKIEN BOY: Thank you; have another cookie. Tonight's topic of discussion is the activities of the past three days, in which Bassercussionist and myself, in a manner decidedly antithetical to the exploits of the well-known Debbie, enjoyed the diversions of the greater Seattle area. Item one is the reason behind this visit, namely, Bassercussionist's practice run of the airline industry to determine its relative safety and comfort before committing twelve hours of his life to make the trip to Munich, Germany. Bassercussionist?

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Thank you. In case clarification is needed, I had my first experience with the modern marvel of flying Thursday night. There are many who are very familiar with this mode of travel, but it was very alien to me. But oddly enough, I was not very nervous about it. It all seemed very straightforward.To make the story not long-winded, I flew from Salt Lake City at 9:00 p.m. and landed in Seattle at roughly 11:30 p.m. I had the inductory misfortune to be seated behind, in front, and on the side of three particularly unhappy toddlers. I didn't mind it very much, because I figured that it was only necessary for my first flight to make the experience complete. Complete, that is, including grilled-cheese crackers and an easily-spillable cup of apple juice. And you can't exclude the compilation of salacious and gritty sitcoms that the airline shows under the pretense of "for your entertainment." Hah.

Also, I have gained an incredible respect for those men and women who design and operate airplanes. As I sat, watching the ground disappear from beneath me, I couldn't help but think to myself, "Okay, how much does this machine weigh? And we have it off the ground on its own momentum? That's incredible." So, kudos to all those airline pilots, engineers, and anyone else who works with airplanes. I'm glad I had the experience before I jump the Atlantic Ocean.

TOLKIEN BOY: Thank you, Bassercussionist for that...exhaustive...but always entertaining explication of the marvels that are modern flight. We'll be watching your career with great interest.Stop one on our Seattle trip was the Experience Music Project in downtown Seattle (right across the street from the Duck Tours. You know you're doing something right if ducks feature prominently in your immediate vicinity). Bassercussionist is, by far, the more musical between us, and I have to say his percussive antics startled many a gradeschooler. I think, though, that my favorite moment was when Bassercussionist and I sat in a cramped booth and recorded ourselves salivating over such musical greats as Buble, Groban, and Martini. Look for a transcript of our cadence confessions (bless us, Wagner, we have sinned) on YouTube. My personal favorite moment was when we, in perfect unison, flashed our brilliant whites at the camera's final recording moments. Oh, and you don't know "cool" until you've heard Bassercussionist's dance mix of "I'm A Pineapple Princess" as sung by Annette Funicello. Seriously. (And don't think, Mr. Fob, that we can't hear you giggling. We can.)

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Immediately after and directly adjacent to the Experience Music Project is the Science Fiction Museum. Here even the most indifferent Star Trek fanatic can find himself ogling at the full-size models of the U.S.S. Enterprise, the fully functional Alien robot, as well as a fully interactive space station observation window where everything from the Death Star to the Crailia (a fully organic spacecraft capable of asexual reproduction (oh, heaven help us)). The Science Fiction Museum is almost guaranteed to awaken the inherent paranoia of being abducted by curious and well-meaning aliens in just about everybody. The Museum also featured many pulp-fiction novels, suggesting every conceivable method of mass destruction that an advanced alien species would use to annihilate the human race (i.e. The Death of the Grass, a story of a great plague that killed all the grass and vegetation on earth, dooming humanity to starvation). Lined with starry ceilings, the Science Fiction Museum transported us to another dimension. And for a few moments, I floated in a great sense of magnificent insignificance, as I stared into the vast expanse of the blanket of trillions of diamond stars.

TOLKIEN BOY: Moving on to other gluten-free entertainments (don't forget your towel), Bassercussionist and I paid a completely unplanned visit to the Pacific Northwest Science Center. Now, a word about the Science Center: I know it's for children. I don't care. It's always been my favorite stop-off in Seattle, for a variety of reasons. For one thing, they have moving dinosaurs. Moving dinosaurs. Sure, they're animatronic, but if you squint, you can almost feel the same terror that our poor primate ancestors must have felt on a late Cretaceous evening. Second, they have an enormously oversized table. I don't know why they do, but they do. And third (and to my mind most convincingly), they have naked mole rats. Considering that naked, mole, and rat are common adjectives that are used to describe me after dates, I have always felt a certain sort of affinity with the ugly eusocial creatures. To top off the experience, Bassercussionist honed his weatherman's skills, indicating that Seattle is due for--wait for it--three days of rain. The boy is a natural.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: I'm still a Seattle-newbie. Gimme a break. Besides, in the time that I've been here, Seattle has been sunny, clear, and beautiful.

TOLKIEN BOY: Words used to describe me before a date.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: In any event, The Seattle Science Center is a must for any Seattle-goer. It works kind of like an extremely educational Disneyland. It teaches you fascinating things, and it makes you feel like a little kid all over again. It's a fun feeling.

TOLKIEN BOY: Until, of course, you find out you weigh 500 pounds on Jupiter, and that your heart rate is dangerously unhealthy and your stress level (even when you're recreating!) borders on the psychotic. But, on to the sculpture gardens!

BASSERCUSSIONIST: As you wish, Tolkien Boy. The sculpture gardens are a grand collection of modern art near the waterfront of the Puget Sound. There you can walk among long, wavy slats of cement (Just make sure you don't lean against them. There are people they hire to yell at you if you get too close. Seriously, where's the career aspiration?). Or you can sit on a chair, underneath an even larger chair. Or you can wax philosophical in front of a large metal tree with no leaves. A singular experience for the sophisticated Seattle-see-er.

TOLKIEN BOY: Nice use of sibilants. Day two of our journey found us again at the waterfront, but this time to ascertain the aqueous amusements of the Seattle aquarium. Bassercussionist and myself, ever the studied students of the seas, discovered a number of important things, not the least of which that we both look frighteningly stunning on a sea otter couch. Bassercussionist, being young and inexperienced, was a bit freaked out by the ambiguous sexuality of a few of the species of fish we encountered, but we pressed on through and discovered that mammals are nicely unambiguous--including but not limited to the recently delivered human female who felt it her right to nurse her young in the middle of a cramped and crowded passageway leading to the salmon spawning springs. (The things one discovers in the wild!) Our only regret is that the puffins were placid. We prefer our puffins progressive.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: I was not either freaked out. I was just a little...bewildered. That's all. After our discoveries at the aquarium, we went to a large and, apparently, popular park. Perhaps the beautiful weather allowed for all manner of health-conscious and sun-loving people to emerge and enjoy the blue skies and green grass. There we met with the legendary Mr. Fob, as well as three other of Tolkien Boy's friends, and recreated. I was reminded of how many years it had been since I had thrown or caught a baseball (five, to be exact), as well as how foolish long-sleeved black shirts are in Seattle summers. But exercise and good company were welcome, and although I came close to severely injuring one of Tolkien Boy's friends, we all walked away still friends. I hope.

TOLKIEN BOY: Pending, of course, the trial proceedings.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Speaking of that, what do you suppose the bail would be for a pair of broken sunglasses and a mild case of bruised pride?

TOLKIEN BOY: Let's just say that it's fortunate for you that you're leaving the country.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Good thing that I got my good-conduct letter before I came to Seattle.

TOLKIEN BOY: All in all, the times I've spent with Bassercussionist have been among some of my most enjoyable moments in Seattle. I'm reminded how likable my family is--to me at least. And it's good to know that in the direst extremities, we've still got each other's back--and that I can still whup him in House Rules Uno if the occasion calls for it. I'm going to miss my little, big brother--but I'm confident that my temporary loss will be Germany's temporary (?) gain.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Definitely temporary. I also have had one of the most enjoyable times this last weekend. I will always have Tolkien Boy's back. I've been told that I look menacing and intimidating (at least when I want to), so keep that in mind, anyone who thinks of picking on him. I don't care if anyone thinks that it's weakness or in some way not masculine to admit feelings for one's siblings. I love you, Tolkien Boy. I've had the time of my life here in Seattle with you, and I won't forget it. When people ask me if I did anything big before I left for Germany, I'll say "I flew to Seattle to see my brother!" And I'll always be proud to say it.

TOLKIEN BOY: As will I, Bassercussionist. As will I. And--guess what? I love you too.

EPILOGUE

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Will people be weirded out by our professions of love?

TOLKIEN BOY: Are you kidding? This post is over three paragraphs long. People start skimming after that.

BASSERCUSSIONIST: It's funny because it's true.

TOLKIEN BOY: Dilbert?

BASSERCUSSIONIST: Dilbert.

To Those I Love

2007-05-29T13:04:00.000-07:00

To Mom, for always loving, helping, and believing in me.

To Dad, for always encouraging, strengthening, and loving me.

To Sister, for helping me learn who I am and what I stand for.

To Sister's Husband, for being one of the coolest guys that I've ever known and tolerating me at the same time.

To Tolkien Boy, for all the laughs, grammatical assistance, and love.

To Walt, for always being there, and for sharing life with me.

To Walt's wife, for joining my family, for your happy smile, and for your love.

To Hermano, for being not only my brother, but also one of my best friends.

To Grandma and Grandpa (Of my father's side), for being a constant source of wisdom, aide, and compassion.

To Grandma and Grandpa (Of my mother's side), for giving me your incredible example of patience, perseverance, and charity.

To Scobberlotch, for being a woman and tolerating me at the same time, for your beautiful smile, and for being another of my best friends.

To Mafia Man, for relating to me and being another of my best friends.

To editorgirl, for your brilliant mind and beautiful smile.

To Choir Teacher, for making my high school experience a grand one.

To Theatre Teacher, for making my high school experience even grander.

To Orchestra Teacher, for believing in me that I may change apathy and indifference to zeal and interest.

To Band Teacher, for instilling in me a love for excitement and music working together.

To Bishop, for understanding.

To SWAT Sniper, for teaching me that good policemen can be good Mormons, contrary to popular belief.

To Emma, for hugging me back.

To Allie, for remembering me and being another one of my best friends.

To Kelso, for sharing my fascination with drums, and for being your own sweet self.

To Drumline Advisor, for teaching me professionalism and reliability, as well as being another one of the coolest guys I've ever known.

To Neo Dragon, for being one of my more prominent best friends, and for letting me play Soul Calibur II, even when he's sick of the game.

To John, for being another of my best friends, and for joining me in the mission field, only a few thousand miles from where I will be.

To Jebediah, for being another of my more prominent best friends, and for being excited for just about everything. (Also for having the coolest yard/garden I've ever seen.)

To Franklin, for watching Red vs. Blue with me in Computer Applications class, when we knew we should've been working on our Access tables.

To Jim Gough, for being the best teacher I've ever had, for teaching me that art is the ability to see things as they are, and not how they appear to be, and for showing me the extraordinary in the ordinary.

To Annie, for sharing her wonderful musical talents, her beautiful smile, and her happiness with me.

To Alex, for being another of my best friends and brother.

And to all those who have been kind to me, spent time with me, or even smiled at me in passing.

May my love and appreciation go with you always.

Farewell, my friends and family.

Pocketbook

2007-05-18T07:48:00.000-07:00

Utah Driving Record: $4.25

U.S. Passport: (roughly) $200

Joseph & Feiss long-sleeved white shirt: $20

Joseph & Feiss short-sleeved white shirt: $18

4 pair black gold-toe socks (bargain buy from Sam's Club): $7.96

1 pair Eckos black dress shoes: $140

Silk tie: $18

Charcoal-grey double-breasted three-button suit: $200

Waterproof fleece-lined winter coat: $220

Spilling two banana-berry Jamba Juices in my car immediately after vacuuming and washing the carpets: priceless

Especially when "Life is Beautiful" is playing on the radio.

Auserwahlt zu Dienen! (Mit ein Umlaut auf die zweite "A")

2007-04-18T09:26:00.000-07:00

Those who know me know that I'm fairly religious. In fact, I think I'd go so far as to say that I'm devoutly religious. If any of my readers lose respect for me because of this, know that I wouldn't trade my beliefs and knowledge for anything in the world. And now that I'm coming to the ripe old age of 19, I am able to share beliefs in another land and another tongue.

That other land, ladies and gentleman, is Germany.

That's right, I have been called on an LDS mission to the Germany Munich/Austria mission.

I must tell you now that I am near overly excited for this. Not only am I stoked to learn the language (I took three years of German, but the third year was quite useless, taught by a gentleman who rambled about sports and subways every day for an hour and a half), but I am also excited to share my beliefs with the people of Germany.

So now that I know exactly when and where I'll be going (June 6 of this year), I am making sort of an official statement to the world of Blogland. To the few who read my musings, I will disappear from the online world on or around June 6.

I appreciate every and all persons who have read, commented, or even glanced at this blog ever since its creation a year and a half ago. Unlike the brilliant Tolkien Boy, I do not have the poetic genius nor the number of commentors necessary to write an interesting limerick about them all. But I do thank you for all your support and for all your words, be they encouraging or demeaning. They have given shape and interest to this small corner of the Internet.

Thanks to all, and God be with you 'till I post again!

Reflections on my Foolishly Romantic Mind

2007-03-26T09:46:00.000-07:00

You know you're daydreaming

When you wish to be the man

that risks all hell and earth

to save and win the girl of dreams.

But in all practicality,

when will such a thing occur?

When will a man such as I

be called upon to demonstrate such

Fortitude? Selflessness? Courage?

Perhaps it may, perhaps it might.

My reasons must not be right.

Women do not seek me as they do

The unattainable hero.

I am a real person with real traits.

I have no chance in fairy tale fantasies.

I don't suppose that I'm mysterious,

Intriguing, noticeable even.

I'm not invisible, but I'm not

the one standing at the front of the crowd.

Why do we do this?

Why do we fill our heads with

visions of glory, honor, and love?

Why do we have to be so

hopefully romantic?

The face. The eyes that are beautiful windows to the soul.

The gentle hair, flowing like water in a stream.

The heart-pounding smile that makes any man

float into the blissful sky.

Who wouldn't be hypnotized?

I do not belong there. I,

My place is here on the ground,

Not there in the sky.

The clay of me crumbles in dreams.

You know you're daydreaming

When you wish to be the man

that risks all hell and earth

to save and win the girl of dreams.

The Do's and Dont's of Grocery Store Etiquette

2007-02-21T08:02:00.000-08:00

I work in a grocery store. It's the typical big, open, mostly white, and full of all sorts of people. I think that it's both a blessing and a curse to be able to interact with so many different kinds of people. On one hand, I feel blessed when I meet someone who's cheerful, smiley, and full of encouragement. And on the other hand, I'm extremely tempted to turn in my two week's when someone comes through my line who is demanding, irritated/irritable, and seems confident that I exist solely to make his/her life convenient.

I am trying my best as of late to be more optimistic and cheerful. I always think of my brother (let's call him Hermano, because he's in Mexico right now) and how happy he was all of the time. But I've learned that such sunshine-ish attitudes are difficult to attain sometimes.

The focus of my job is customer service. My official title is "cashier" or "courtesy clerk." To the layman, this means I'm the guy who rings up your foodstuffs, wraps them in anti-environmental plastic, and then demands your money. It's kind of like a really smiley and friendly mafia man. Even though I'm taking your money, I'm determined that you will enjoy the experience.

But I don't think that the employees of the grocery store are the only ones who should be courteous and thoughtful. While it is difficult for some people to understand, cashiers are people, too. And most of the time, they are not responsible for the high price of produce.

So it is in that spirit that I present the 10 Do's and Dont's of Grocery Store Etiquette. I hope that they will provide an insight into the lives of grocery store employees. Or at least, to the grocery store that I work at.

1. The first thing I'd like everyone to know is something that I've said already: that cashiers are not responsible for prices.

The other day a lady came through my line and started yelling at me about the price of oranges. Being my usual pushover self, I played along and tried to tone the conversation down. What I should've done is come right out and say "Look, California froze over. You have a problem with that? Go talk to them. I'm sure they're as thrilled about it as you are." While blatant disrespects are not really the way to go, please take it easy on the cashiers. They're not the ones who stamp the price on the tag.

2. The Express Lane.

All of the grocery stores I've been to have an Express Lane that takes about 15 items or less, for the purpose of allowing those with just a couple of items to get through the checkout experience quickly and leave the store. This is one thing that gets on everybody's nerves. If you have a cart that is stacked to the ceiling, PLEASE do not go through the Express Lane. It's irritating to the cashier, it's irritating to the buyer, and it's irritating to the twenty people in line behind you who now have to wait twenty minutes while you unload your cart. Keep in mind that Express checkers have VERY LITTLE room to maneuver. To stack a huge pile of meat, eggs, and milk in the two-foot space at his/her checkstand is exasperating.

3. If you go through the Express Lane, try to avoid using checks as payment.

Again, the Express Lane is meant to go quickly. In the time it takes to write a check, take out the check, hand the check to the cashier, show your ID to the cashier, have the cashier run the check through the verification system, have the cashier write all sorts of authorization numbers on the check, have the cashier type in the amount of the check, run the check through another verification system, store the check, and have the cashier give you your receipt for the check, the lane on the other side has gone through at least fifteen people. Try to avoid checks on Express.

4. No matter where you are, DO NOT leave your cart just sitting there.

The only places you are allowed to leave a cart are the cart returns in the parking lot or the big cart bay just inside the store. No doubt you've seen the signs around the parking lot saying that the store can't be responsible for damage done by carts not in the return places. That's because the only people who leave carts just sitting in the parking lot are people who are either 1) in a hurry, 2) ignorant of the fact that there is a cart return less than 10 feet away, or 3) irresponsible and lazy. That's just the way it is. Please put your cart away. It makes life easier for everyone.

5. Have your method of payment ready or easily reachable before the time comes to pay.

I don't like to be a Scrooge, but it's annoying when someone comes through my line and takes forever to dig out their credit card or their checkbook or whatever they're using. It's not like we're keeping a clock running on how long the transaction takes, but it's a lot easier for you if you can just pull it out and use it, instead of having to hire an excavation team to find that last nickel so that you can have exact change.

6. Know your limits.

One of the most exasperating thing a customer can do at a grocery store is come to the checkout stand with a cart stuffed with expensive foods and say "I can only go up to $50." What the customers don't realize is that this means that maybe a fourth of the things in their cart will be bought and bagged. The rest will be given to an unhappy bagger who will be asked to go through the entire store and put everything back on the shelves. This can take anywhere from forty minutes to two hours, depending on how well the bagger knows the store. Yes, it's our job and we get paid for it, but believe me when I say that it's not fun.

7. Don't expect the cashiers or baggers to move like lightning.

Cashiers and baggers are normal human beings. They move like human beings. Their motor skills and reflexes are that of normal human beings. Please don't think that we're all ex-Army Rangers. We can only move so fast.

8. The grocery store is not a bank.

I know the temptation is great, but save your request for $35 all in one-dollar bills for the credit union.

9. Don't steal.

This is a general rule for life, but it seems to have great application to a grocery store. A little while ago, I was recruited as a security guard to help catch a couple of guys who were stealing a bunch of batteries. We got them just outside the store, and those will be the most expensive batteries they will ever buy. Know that there are people watching what goes on in the store. There isn't a square foot in the store that they can't see. Make life easier for yourself. If you open a package, take it to the front and pay for it. You'll feel better, and your record will have one less blemish.

10. Treat everyone with respect.

A grocery store is a collection of ordinary people who are trying to give you a convenient and cheerful way to obtain food. Everyone works to make the environment conducive to that feeling. And don't forget that your fellow shoppers are also trying to have a good experience. To sum it up, be thoughtful for everybody.

I hope that these tips have provided you with some measure of insight into the world of the grocery store employee. I love my job, even if people get on my nerves sometimes.

But isn't that what life's all about? Tolerance?

Math Tests. Guillotines, and Other Deadly Devices

2007-02-07T09:40:00.000-08:00

There's an odd sort of blissful acceptance that one feels immediately after completing a test. I believe that it's the same sort of feeling that French Aristocrats felt when the henchman let go of the ropes.

It's a strange feeling, to be sure. It's as if I've jumped into a pool of lava, I know I'm going to die, there's nothing I can do about it, but I don't seem to care anymore. It's almost as if I know I should be concerned, but I'm not. Hm.

Quantative Reasoning is something of a revolution in my math world. When I graduated from Club Heights Elementary School, my sixth grade teacher fatally believed that I was proficient enough in math to skip Pre-Algebra. And when I say fatally, I mean for me. I distinctly remember my first day in my Algebra class. My teacher handed out a sheet and the first problem read...

1. 3x+4y=25x Find y.

I stared at the sheet for about twenty minutes.

My world was visibly falling apart. I hadn't the faintest idea of what I was looking at.

My teacher, a 64 year-old woman with one daughter (who had a pregnancy that ended with a C-section, as she told us just about every day) and a disturbing fascination with vacuum cleaners, came around to my desk and casually asked...

"Is everything okay?"

I looked up at her and said "I don't think I understand the question."

She smiled and spoke in a condescending tone about studying over the summer and keeping up with my studies. I felt like screaming in her face "When the heck did letters become numbers?!!!"

And the rest of my mathematical career went downhill from there. Ever since that day, I have had to struggle to maintain a steady C grade in my math classes. The only reason I passed geometry was because we were assigned in the last week of school to make a kite using geometric functions. The kite didn't fly, but I was able to make a decent-looking one.

But now that I'm in quantative reasoning (where my teacher couldn't care less about the numbers as long as I understand the concepts), I believe that I'm making improvement. I just finished my first math test and I feel fairly confident about it.

But I've been wrong before.

Family, Friends, and the Quest for World Peace

2007-01-08T07:28:00.000-08:00

I've decided that I'm a pacifist. This may not be new to anyone other than myself, but it is something that I have just recently discovered. While I would rather have Sir Churchill's approval, I realize that I cannot deny my true nature. And that nature is embodied in the motto "Get along well or kill each other, I don't care."

Allow me to explain. I have two cousins. I mean, I have more than two cousins, but only two are necessary for this example and attempted moral. These two cousins are young. I will not disclose name or exact relation, in order to protect the young and innocent. Well, let's just stick with young. Anyway, these two cousins of mine spend every other weekend with my parents and I at our house. They've been with us for quite some time now, and I don't think my cousins, my uncle who brings them, my parents, or I have quite figured out how to deal with it effectively yet. I won't go into too much detail, for fear of exaggeration and that readers will quickly lose interest in extended family unrest, but these two wonderful bundles of joy (my cousins) seem incapable of surviving without confrontation and contention. They fight over just about anything, from what TV show to watch to what color of shoes they should wear for that day.

This may be unfair and uncharitable of me on many counts, but it is something that, in my house, was dealt with and eradicated many years ago. I know that when I was their age, my brother and I fought a great deal. Arguing over this and that, often driving my other brothers and sister up whatever wall was in the room at the time. However, in all those years of learning how to coexist with others, I had a loving mother and enforcing father that were always there to remind us that when we got older, we had to learn to act politely and deal kindly with others.

And this is the reason why our time with my cousins has been particularly difficult for us and them. I can't imagine what it's like for my cousins, because they have to leave their mother every other weekend and spend it with their father. And I'd be willing to bet that they recieve two completely different sets of rules and attitudes every time. I'd be confused, I know, as to what on earth I was supposed to act like. I don't know how they act like at their mother's house, but I know that when they come over to mine, it's like it's their time to vent their frustrations.

Now, I come from a fairly sheltered environment. When my brothers and I would fight, my father would threaten that if we don't stop fighting and get along, we would have to put our arms around each other and sing "There is beauty all around when there's love at home." Needless to say, this method was extremely effective and worked every time. The problem is that my father can't do that with my cousins and uncle, because they're not with us long enough to establish a base of principles.

This is where the motto "Get along well or kill each other, I don't care" comes in. When my two cousins begin fighting, my uncle doesn't hesitate to join in. I realize that this can be a way of endearment to some people, and that it is simply how some people relate to everything around them. All I know is that a very real, palpable silence comes over me when they begin clashing. The reason for this is that I am having a large battle in my mind over what to do. One side draws their weapons and screams "Put them in their place! They have no right to create such a disturbance in MY house!! Death to confrontation!!!" While the other side puts up their hands eagarly and pleads "But wait! Is it our place to demand that they act a certain way? What about individuality? Maybe their just asserting themselves! Conflict is healthy! Give genocide a chance!!" Okay, maybe not so much on the genocide, but you get the idea. So while my mind is dropping nukes on my decision-making complex, my cousins and uncle are close to tearing each other apart. So I just sit there and stare blankly into space. Cognitive dissonance takes over, and I begin to mutter stupidly like a monkey with a stutter.

I love my family, don't get me wrong. There isn't a single group on the earth that I would rather spend my time with. But no one wants to be around people who fight and argue all of the time, I don't care how roughly you're tempered.

I notice that I act this way with friends, as well. I've been very careful in my selection of friends, and I don't think that it's prideful of me to say that I've been successful in finding very good friends. But I've found myself in the role of mediator before when my friends find some strange reason to be angry with each other. I've grown to be fairly comfortable in this role, as it allows me to ease the situation (if I do it right, that is), and it allows me to remain detached and uninvolved at the same time! Apathetic relationship counseling, available at Bassercussionist Psychiatry Inc., for the low, low price of a bear hug and a rehearsed compliment! Rates have never been lower!

All joking aside, though, I've decided that I need to be more actionistic. I think that I'm taking some linguistic liberties with that word (sorry, Tolkien Boy!), but it accurately describes my situation. I feel guilty sitting silently while the world around me is bent on snapping everyone's neck.

So one of my New Year's resolutions (and we all know how well THOSE hold out, in general) is to be more decisive, assertive, and vocal of my opinion. While silence is my best trait, maybe it's time that I make myself heard.

Who knows? Maybe violence IS the answer to all our problems.

The Joy of Collegiate Life

2006-10-27T08:19:00.000-07:00

"You're not a true college person," Scobberlotch said with a mix of enthusiasm and sarcasm in her voice, "if you don't stay up until 2:00 in the morning with a bunch of friends throwing leaves at eachother."

Yeah, well, I'm a fan of having purpose in life.

But I am slowly breaking out of my shell of naivete, and I am learning that college is WAY different from high school, and it took me by surprise for the first couple of weeks.

First off, college actually expects me to be responsible. Go figure. I'm not opposed to it by any means, but I definitely am not used to it. In high school, they took me by the hand and practically pulled me through the system, coddling me and brushing me off if I fell. College, on the other hand, has taken me and set me on a track, pointed me in a direction, and said "Go."

Anyone who has witnessed me attempt to do something new knows that I become unsure, awkward, and incredibly foolish-looking every time someone tells me to simply "go." I stutter and stumble on my way, making more mistakes than normal. So the first few weeks of this semester have been, shall we say, shaky.

But I have to say, I love the fact that every student wants to be here. Well, almost every student. The ones that don't want to be here are those that know that they need to be here, so they go through the system along with everyone else. There aren't any of the obnoxious, "this is my life, you can't tell me what to do" crap. It's wonderful. On the first day of class, my Computer Applications teacher told the class

"You can come to class if you want. If you don't want to come to class, then don't. I really don't care." At that point, I said to myself "Finally." It's so nice to be in an environment where people don't force you to do anything or be anywhere.

But even that has its drawbacks. There's no one forcing you to do anything or be anywhere, so sometimes you're not doing what you need to be doing or where you need to be, simply because you don't have someone hounding you out every day. It's amazing what can happen, because if you don't keep up, it's your own effort that's going to get you back up.

It's frightening, to be honest.

But I'm learning, and slowly becoming familiar with the whole system.

Well, time for Bassercussionist to sign off, as he has a very large test in a few hours, and he must verily study for it.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changin'!

2006-09-08T07:12:00.000-07:00

Like my new template? Times are changin'!

Tall as a Tree, Strong as an Ox, Small as an Ant, Scared as a Fox

2006-08-31T20:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I hate the impression I give. Ever since my Freshman year, I have been at least six feet tall and two hundred pounds. This came in use, as I had been a kind of outlet for all of that teen angst for a lot of my classmates in the years before. But when I became too large for them to look down at, they must've found a new culprit for everything that was going wrong in their lives. It made me feel kind of bad, really, because a few people took it personally that I had involuntarily sprouted about two feet and gained about seventy five pounds. Well, I'd like to say that I gained seventy five pounds, as that would imply that I was much skinnier my first years in Junior High School, but alas, not so. I was just about two feet shorter. Yeah. Four feet tall and two hundred pounds.....not a pretty sight.

But now that I have kind of grown into some semblance of proportion with that weight, people have begun to assume that I must have some large amount of muscle mass. While my job has required that as a given, it creates the problem of how strong I am in other people's eyes.

Allow me to explain. The other day, I was in class at the good ol' BC, and a person said to me "How much can you lift." I refrained from divulging that information, and stuck with a vague, "It's been a while since I've lifted." And then the person said "You look like you can tear a tree out of the ground."

This made me think to myself "Time to start wearing long-sleeved shirts to school."

Tolkien Boy has told me many times to not be ashamed of my strength, and I appreciate that, but at the same time, I don't look that big. That's not modesty; that's fact. I have a friend who is the same height and weight as me, but he looks just like a Marvel superhero. Chiseled abs and everything. He and I used to hang together a lot, and someone once said to the two of us that if they were ever in a dangerous place, they'd want to two of us as their bodyguards. While it is my dream to be someone's bodyguard, I can't imagine how I ended up as part of that equation; especially while I was standing next to my friend. (Let us call him Dante.) Dante and I have a lot of the same ideas and dreams, and I'd say that we are the best of friends. (Disclaimer for you, Dante!)

So, I'm going to stop typing right now and go do some push-ups. Maybe that will validate me.

Standing On the Precipice

2006-08-27T19:47:00.000-07:00

Most of my friends are college students. Everyone in my family is involved with college. My Dad's a vice president at a college. One of my brothers has his Bachelor's in English. Another has his Bachelor's of Science in Physics. The other's an engineer aspiring to become an Aerospace designer for NASA. My brother-in-law is a recruiter for a college. So it would only follow the flow of logic to its limit when the time came that I started college. And that time has come.

Yes, you read me right. Little ol' Bassercussionist will go to his first day of college tomorrow.

I won't waste anyone's time or patience with the common "I'm nervous, but I'm excited" monologues. However, I do feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff with no end. I quit my job that I've had for two years, I graduated from public school (which I've attended for thirteen years), and pretty much everyone I've known is either moving away to college out of state or going on missions. So here I stand looking at the distance below me that is filled with new school, new employment, and new people.

Well, the deepness is unforgiving, and the shelf that holds me is quickly cracking and sliding away. Instead of simply slipping hesitantly and awkwardly into the abyss, I will gather myself together and dive headfirst into it.

So here I go.

Ready or not.

Here I come.

A Day in the Life of the Ice Slinger

2006-08-13T13:00:00.000-07:00

After a great amount of admonition, I weave my way of words once again.

I have been employed in an industry for two summers now. And, in my most humble opinion, the general population depend on this industry during the summer more than any other business. And that industry (drum roll, please) is the Ice industry. (Bah-dum ching!)

You may or may not have noticed, but people buy quite literally a ton of ice during the summer. It's almost as if they think it's hot outside or some crazy thing like that. But all I know is that it makes the average work day an interesting experience. And that makes every summer an adventure.

To give those of you "ice illiterates" an idea of what exactly an average work day is like for me, allow me to outline what basically happens each day.

The day begins when I arrive at the Ice Palace. That is the "in" term for the factory where the ice is made. I normally walk right in, sit right down, and then buy a gatorade from the vending machine. Roughly in that order. Sometimes I get a doughnut. Only sometimes though.

In order to understand what normally happens next, you have to understand the layout of the factory: Right in front is the office, through a door to the west is the loading dock where semi trucks either bring stuff in or take stuff out. Then to the south of the dock is a very large freezer door. Through said door is a gigantic industrial freezer that is mind-bogglingly cold. I think the official temperature is -20 degrees farenheit.

So that being understood, one of four things happen when I come in first thing in the morning:

1) I make my way around the back of the factory to a large machine where the ice is made to put it in bags and throw it on a conveyor belt into the freezer

2) I bundle up like an eskimo and go into the freezer to stack bags of ice that someone else is throwing through

3) I load up a truck with ice and go around town, filling up the ice merchandisers in convienience stores and other related foodstuffs providers.

4) I go into the freezer just long enough to get a doughnut and then microwave and eat it. But I only do that sometimes.

On the holiday weeks, I can go through each one of those steps up to three times a day for as much as four hours at a time. Except for the doughnut step; I only do that sometimes.

Needless to say, July 4th is my least favorite holiday of the year.

And July 24th.

And Labor Day.

And county fairs.

So there you have it. A small taste of what it's like to work at an Ice Palace. Let me conclude with a bit of advice: If you are getting gas or simply buying a corndog at your local convienience store, DO NOT park in front of the exterior ice box. While I myself am a calm, civilized sort of human, a few of my co-workers would find joy and indeed great satisfaction from parking the ice truck in a way that would prevent you from moving from that spot until we are done filling up the merchandiser. And that could take anywhere from ten minutes to two hours. Not a risk worth taking, I'd say.

The Joys of Anesthesia

2006-07-02T19:55:00.000-07:00

I'll never understand the appeal of a career in dentistry. I know some people are interested in it, but I simply do not see the benefits of taking a long metal pick and scraping the remains of someone's lunch off of their teeth. I wonder what their lunchtime conversations are like.

Dentist #1: "What did you bring for lunch today?"

Dentist #2: "Oh, just an apple, some parsley, and a little squeaky cheese. How about you?

Dentist #1: "Can you keep a secret?"

Dentist #2: "Of course; I took the Hippocratic oath."

Dentist #1: "I brought some corn on the cob, a carmel apple, and a high-sugar, high-sodium soda."
Dentist #2: "It looks like you've also got a little steak in there."

Dentist #1: "Yeah, had it last night. I saved the gristle."

Dentist #2: "Looks like you'll be super-sonic-ing your own teeth tonight."

Dentist #1: "That's okay. I'm getting some good practice with it."

Patient: (From one of the rooms) "Rrrggham gemdesh avm pomiia!"

Dentist #1: "Rinse then swish, Mr. Kevorkian! Rinse then swish!"

Dentist #2: "Did you hear what that Mr. Kevrikorn or whatever does for a living? I heard that he's a customer service specialist at a car dealership."

Dentist #1: "Yeah, but I also hear he's planning a career shift."

A week ago, I had my wisdom teeth removed. I now can share empathy with the thousands that have gone before me. For those of you who have not had the singularly interesting experience of being put completely to sleep with anesthesia, it is not something easily described.

The process begins with the creation of a false sense of security and comfort generated by the dentists, surgeons, nurses, and anesthesiologists that must all be present before you lose consciousness, making one feel as if one is being interrogated or condemned to the guillotine. All smiles and buddy-buddying, the nurses launch into a string of questions about your personal life, attempting to create a measure of momentary trust. Questions like, "What school did you go to?" "Do you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?" "Where do you work?" "What's your social security number?" "Have you ever had any DNA alterations?" "Can you prove that you've never been cloned?"

They then begin to explain the upcoming procedure in nice "I don't really want you to know what we're going to do to you once you're completely incopacitated" terms. They say that they're simply going to inject a chemical into your bloodstream that will make your body go into a preliminary shut-down of all systems that make you a coherent human being. Well, it was more like, "Okay, we're going to put you to sleep now." Then the chair begins to move of its own will, exposing you like a biology experiment to its masters.

Then the really confusing part comes. The anesthesiologist says "You're going to feel a little sting on your arm, nothing more." The sting comes and goes, and then you feel a strange, surging feeling sweep through your entire body. To me it felt like five minutes later (my mother informed me that it was really only ten seconds) when I simply slipped from Consciousland. And then I woke up. I know that the operation took a whole hour, but it really only felt like two seconds after I fell asleep to when I woke up. The first thing to regain full function was my hearing. It was a Carpenter's song, I think. It went, "Yeahhhh, yeahh, I feel all right, feel all right..." I felt as if the receptionist who chose the music was being a little sarcastic with me. Then my fingers regained. Eagar to assure myself that I wasn't crippled for life, I opened and closed my hands, just because I could. Then I opened my eyes. They refused to focus on anything, but they worked. I felt sure that someday I would recover. Hopefully in time for my High School's 25th Year Reunion, but one can only hope.

I then was practically carried by three nurses (there was only one originally, but I more than tripled her in weight and height) to our car and my mom drove me home. I collapsed in bed and slept for five hours. When I awoke that night, I was still feeling the after-effects of the sedative, so I felt absolutely wonderful. It wasn't until that wore off that I was reminded that this was really a miserable experience. But I enjoyed a few hours of that "I feel great, I look horrible, and I don't care about a single thing in the world."

So if anyone reads this who has not had this wonderful operation done on them, when you go in, thank your anesthesiologist in advance. If you have had it done, send him a thank-you note. Because it's people like him that keep people from doing a walk-by egging of the dentist's office.

Not Quite Music to the Ears

2006-07-02T19:01:00.000-07:00

Everybody's different. I understand that. One man's garbage is another man's useless living room embellishment. Also, I think there would be credence to say that one man's (or woman's, to be fair) description of "pleasing" would not be the same as another's. However, there is something that I am fairly certain the entire population of the planet earth will agree is not pleasing. That would be: a fire-engine siren.

Now, I know that you will read this and say to yourself: "Okay, he's really reaching for a topic here," but I want you to think about it. This Tuesday is the 4th of July. And what's the most popular way to demonstrate one's patriotism? (Besides buying a car or a firearm) That's right: we go to parades! We stand (the smarter ones bring camp chairs) on the side of a normally busy street in the blaring July sun and watch a bunch of police cars and fire-engines drive slowly by. They do their best to keep you entertained by using you as target practice with small fistfulls of tootsie rolls, or they simply assume you want to be drenched and unloose their high-pressure water hose that is designed with enough power to make an elephant lose its balance. But even with that, I have no problem with our civil servants breaking up the monotony of their chosen profession with a little publicly endorsed civilian violence and mischief. The part that really miffs me is the fact that the firemen are under the impression that their sirens are pleasing to listen to. If you think I'm exaggerating, pay attention to the next parade; the firemen will drive tantalizingly slow and then blast their siren as if the city bank had spontaneously combusted. But I want you to look at the drivers' faces. Eight times out of ten, they will have the biggest grin on their faces that you've ever seen. They obviously enjoy the reaction of fifty thousand ear-drums exploding.

It makes me wonder what goes through their minds. The way I figure, one of three things is running across their anterior lobes.

1) A kind, gentle-hearted firemen (the kind we like to come when our fuse box explodes and sets the kitchen on fire) says to himself, "Look at all those little people out there on the sidewalk. They look a little bored. Maybe they're getting tired of the clowns scaring their children, or maybe they are confused as to why all the city officials are riding in cars that were recalled seventy years ago. Perhaps I can liven up their morning here." And with a cheerful, well-intended gesture, he happily blares the siren.

2) An evil, conniving firemen with a gold tooth and a fumanchu (The kind we normally avoid calling when our lives are in danger) says to himself, "It's so perfect. My plan is perfect! Things couldn't have worked out better if I hadn't planned them myself! Fifty thousand innocent bystanders shall suffer a massive migraine due to my presence and rush to the pharmacy for much needed pain killer, allowing me the time to sneak into the shampoo aisle and scratch out all the barcodes on all the shampoo! They will pay for what they did to my dandruff!! Ha ha!!" He will then display that same wide grin I mentioned earlier, and, with an inner triumphant whoop, blare the siren for ten seconds longer than any of the others.

3) A fairly indifferent firemen, who is there only because of the chance for free candy and popsicles, (The kind we also avoid in an emergency, for fear that they would enter the house and take our brooms and family portraits as souvenirs of his heroic actions) says to himself. "...............................Monkeys are funny.................These people are too..............Oooh! Flashing red button!" Then he will excitedly press the siren off and on repeatedly until a drummer in the marching band ahead of him turns around and throws a drumstick at his windshield. This particular incident is rare, but if it happens this Tuesday, can someone take a picture of it and send it to me? It has to be at that perfect moment where the stick hits the windshield; that way it'll have the driver's reaction in it as well.

I may be biased in my descriptions, but I know what it's like to be in a marching band in a parade. I know what it's like to be at least attempting to maintain a steady beat when a fire truck blasts your hopes for a decent song into the wind. (If there is a wind; if not, then it gets blasted into the thick summer air and dissipates into the distance)

So the next time you go to a parade and a fire truck goes by and shortens the life of your ears, just think to yourself, "Does he really have my best interest at heart? Because if that's his way of displaying his respect for civic duty, I'm going to sneak into the fire station tonight and let all the air out of his tires, just to show my support."

Drama

2006-03-24T19:20:00.000-08:00

What is drama? Needless to say there are many various and sundry definitions of this word. For some it is a five-letter curse to be disgusted at and shunned like the bubonic plague at a European Rodent Festival. For others, drama is simply a term for the "events" that take place when two people become bound and determined to undermine the other in the view of all within earshot (this is common in High School). And then, for pretty much everyone else, it is the ability to temporarily shed the troubles of the real world and live for a while in a world entirely of your own creation. I am of this last mentality. Not because of the negative connotation of the prior definitions, but because of the positive connotation of the last. Being the bright ray of sunshine that I am once every other month, it makes me feel much better that I can design a sort of "secondary reality" from which I may derive all sorts of new strengths, new pleasures, new pressures, new pains, and new troubles. Perhaps I dwell too much on the negative. But even in the negative aspects of the S.R. (secondary reality), one finds comfort in facing different challenges, as opposed to doggedly facing the old challenges that have become frustrating and boring to oneself.

I suppose some may view the escaping of one set of troubles to face a whole new set as just about the most foolish thing a human being can achieve. However, I say differently. Facing a new set of challenges is like tackling a football player very much larger than yourself; it all depends on your approach. If you go full on and try to take him down from his chest and helmet, the goliath will simply shunt you off to a side and run you over again and again. But if you take it strategically and lower yourself so that you take him from his knees, you can use your own body weight to throw that behemoth to the ground.

Now, to all you football players out there who may read this by some sick twist of fate, know that I played football officially for a total of three days. I was thoroughly embarassed, but I quickly learned many lessons. The first of which was that I run like a combination of a rhino and a dodo. The second was that there's a muscle in your back that must have been made specifically for letting your brain know that you've taken a blow to your chest, and is responsible for the ten minutes I spent on the ground writhing in pain. The third lesson is the one which I have been unintentionally rambling away from. I shall explain in a short narrative: I was given a blocking assignment, and, to make the story short, I was tackled by a guy that was less than half my size. I braced and expected nothing more than a hardly noticeable pressure somewhere around my shin. To my extreme surprise, and also to the agony of my pride, this little man siezed me around my knees and lifted me completely off of the ground. I weigh 240 pounds. This man couldn't have weighed more than 120. And yet he succeeded in lifting me completely off the ground and dropping me back on the ground on my back behind him. When I asked him later how he managed such an incredible feat, he simply stated "I got under you." Although this statement had now poignant affect on me at the time, I have realized that that is the way to face challenges. Not to attack it recklessly and thoughtlessly, but to think and be rational; get under your troubles and use your own strengths to get rid of them. Don't let them jump on you and take you down.

Now, why was I talking about that? Oh, yes, drama. Forgive my digression. Drama is almost always associated with theatre. I have had better luck in the theatre area than I ever had in the athletics area. Recently I finished performing in a play at my school. It was none other than Disney's "Beauty & the Beast." I've been told that at my school we do amazing shows. I've been in theatre for three years. I honestly can't tell if we do amazing shows. Not because I'm ignorant, but because I just don't notice. (Which may or may not be the same thing.) I played Maurice, a crazy genius inventor father. A very different character than most; old yet childish, small yet fiery, brilliant but thoughtless. This was a wonderful chance for me to shed my normal self and assume the role of someone very different than myself.

To tie this random bit of information to the original intent of the opening passages, theatre is a wonderful passage to relief from your trouble and strife. During Beauty and the Beast I fell behind in classwork and became thoroughly stressed. But every time I stepped onto that stage, I forgot my problems. I believe that we can learn to get under our problems, lift them into the air, and slam them on the ground behind us, even if they are more than twice our size.

The Jukebox Flickers to Life

2006-02-12T15:08:00.000-08:00

"Birds flyin' high...you know how I feel.
Sun in the sky...you know how I feel.
Breeze driftin' on by...you know how I feel.
It's a new dawn...it's a new day....
It's a new life for me.
And I'm feelin' good."

-None other than Michael Buble

The Jukebox flickers to life, and a new story begins. Moskovad is dead, drowned in the forgetfulness in which he bathed in so frequently. Understandable, really, given his current schedule. Regardless of the fact that his schedule and mine are exactly the same, the Bassercussionist will keep the beat. The rhythm will flow. Slowly, perhaps, but it will flow.

A little explanation. I play the bass. Now I know that the generic assumption for the word "bass" is the hard-rock version of the electric bass guitar; all sound and fury, signifying nothing. For me, this is SO wrong. To me, the real bass is six feet tall, completely made of wood and metal strings, is unable (by default at least) to plug into an amplifier, and requires at least a somewhat physically fit person to fully play. It is (in my most humble opinion) the most beautiful musical instrument, both in sound and shape. Most people mistake it for a cello, and some culturally illiterate people even mistake it for a large violin. But it is a String Bass, or a Double Bass, or a Contrabass. Whatever floats your boat.

I also play the drums. That is where the "ercussionist" part comes in from the root "percussionist." I love it greatly. It's very addicting, really. I can't count how many people's nerves I've gotten on with my incessant drumming. But what can I say? I got the music in me. I got the music in me. Bop bop ooooh. Yeah.
There are three different "ranks," if you will, in the world of percussion. They go as follows:

1. Drummer

The drummer is the easiest rank to achieve. Anyone can be a drummer. Anyone. The drummer has no discipline, creativity, or sense of closure. In simpler terms, the drummer sits at a drumset and plays the same beat over and over again for three hours, thinking that everyone in the immediate vicinity is absolutely entranced by his superior musical talents. When in fact, everyone is annoyed to the verge of murder and are forced to shout Calculus functions as loud as they can, attempting to grasp the lifeline to their sanity. Perhaps I am too harsh. I certainly do not lie, but I may be too harsh. The drummers are the seeds of hopefully fruitful musical trees. They rely on basics to impress those around them. Almost all of the drummers I know at the school I attend have incredible potential. Almost.

2. Malleteer

The first thing that comes to mind at the sound of this word is a man with a very pointy goatee, a mustache that curls up the sides of his face, dressed in a blue and silver tunic, boots, and holding two timpani mallets. I can assure you that a malleteer will rarely, if ever, feel the need to challenge you to a duel. Malleteers are almost the exact opposite of drummers. They are all discipline. Instead of sitting at a drumset and haphazardly and roughly beating out migraine-inducing rock beats that consist of two sequences, they will studiously learn the more refined, more subtle aspects of percussion. The malleteers instruments of choice involve keyboard instruments (i.e. xylophones, marimba, vibraphone, glockenspiel, etc.) and other auxillary instruments. They are likely to play instruments that look like they came from the planet Neptune that make sounds that are confusing, yet intriguing. Malleteers have a tendency to be a bit perfectionistic and a little OCD, but we love them anyway.

3. Percussionist

And finally, we come to the final rank of percussion: the Percussionist. The percussionist is the one that is the right balance of the drummer's potential, eagerness, determination and drive and the malleteer's work ethic, diversity, skill, and discipline. Percussionists, as a rule, are quite a bit more laid back than the other two ranks, having gotten over the need to prove themselves.

So if there is anyone reading this blog that is looking for a "drummer" for their band or something; give it up. It'll be more of a headache than it is worth. Instead, look for a Percussionist to fill your rhythm needs.