Tuesday, June 22, 2004

TWO FAILURES, EXPERIENCED DURING THE PENULTIMATE OBLIGATORY HUMANITIES CLASS: And not academic ones, which merely inspire hair-pulling rage in me--no, I'm not too worried about that, in this class. No, these are the social failure, or failures of will, and only inspire a sense of loss, of having had the chance to do something better but not succeeding, due to fear and basic lack of effort.

For Lo! Did I weasel out of having to read my crappy journal before the class. The semester-long assignment was, you see, to write a page or two on each of the reading assignments. Our professor asks for volunteers and some go willingly; I will go, I say to myself, only if forced. And last night I said to him, "Sooooo you'll consider my class participation an acceptable subsitute for my lack of journal-reading, right?" Or words to that effect. And he's like, well, probably not. But I am quite the talker there in class, making with the stupid questions all the time. So, today, he asks for those who have not yet presented their journals, please come forward. And I kind of half raise my hand and he doesn't call on me. So I got away with not reading my journal, and I don't think anyone else did. I am full of shame for not stepping forward, and shouldering the same burden as the rest of the class. My gregariousness in classroom discussions is no excuse. I have Gotten Away With Something, and cannot enjoy it, for my classmates did not (I think.) But maybe he was just cutting me a break so I shouldn't worry about it.

And Lo! I succeeded in not talking to the girl I have a crush on in this class. (There's usually one in every class.) Not only that, but I succeeded in not glancing at her, in her silent beauty, when I had the chance to at least three-quarters of the time. At the time I imagined this to be some triumph of my self-control, but does not make me feel like less of a fool for not raising the issue. But then you think, girl like that, she's got random people talking to her all the time--how're you gonna be different? And you can't think of a way to be different, and you retreat into silence, matching hers, so you at least have the triumph of not embarassing yourself. Which is a pale victory. I don't think she ever read from her journal either, but I really can't remember conclusively. So I am alone in my silent crush for her, just as I am alone in my weakness with journal reading. I am a wailing soul. With a blog.

Sorry about that, folks. Too many world masterpieces.

Your proto-Charlotte Bobcats. I hope the Drobber stays with them. In a league full of cultish white and European bench players, the Drobber is the one who deserves his cult.

New Simmons. It's his annual NBA tradability ratings thing. I wonder where he'll have Shaq this year.

Album I am listening to at saturation levels right now: Take Me To Your Leader, by King Geedorah. Another of DOOM's guises, though he has a lot of guests in this one. One of the tracks seems to be composed entirely of samples of Japanese monster movies dubbed in English, set to a beat, and another seems to be composed entirely of samples of anime dubbed in English, also set to a beat. Needless to say, I love it. One of these days I'm going to do track-by-track review of the entire Dumile catalog (and, yes, I figured out DOOM's real name.) Yep.

Thank you for your indulgence on a wretched evening.

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