I really do

This will be a short entry, but it is entry that must be shared. As most of my friends and family know, I can be a bit a music snob. I try in vain to conceal this underlying condition when meeting new people, but the snobbery inevitably rears its obnoxious head. I suppose it goes back to some sort of social acceptance that I've always felt a specific taste in music could guarantee. Junior high era brainwashing, we've all been there.

Nevertheless, the peer pressure aspect of liking music passed around 10th grade, and I like to think now I listen to what I listen to because I believe it is enjoyable and well crafted. However, the judgmental, holier than thou attitude is more difficult to shake than one would suspect.  In spite of being a 21 year old adult on the verge of graduating college, I can't help but judge people based on their taste in music. I always felt that your favorite artist was a clean cut reflection of your intelligence, or more specifically, your personality. For instance, if your all time favorite band is the Beatles, I am lead to believe that, though the band is respectable, you are too lazy to indulge in the contemporary music that spawned from this monumental band. Or, if you LOVE Taylor Swift, you are probably satisfied and complacent with simplistic pop songs and lack the ability to appreciate complexity. And if you like metal, I have nothing to say because I have yet to successfully establish the psychopathy behind it. No offense. It's just such a strange genre.

BUT, this is all crap spewing from the gutter of my closed mind. I had a revelation via a DJ on the Sirius/XM radio station called XMU, a station that plays underground and indie music that most people haven't heard of. They claim it's supposed to keep people updated on what the "next big thing" will be before they become that big thing, but I know it's just a hipster station where people go and listen and then feel high and mighty for listening to music no one's heard of, or simply being the first person to hear about it. But that's the beauty of it. If no one's heard of a band, they can't formulate a stereotype to place you in based on that particular musical preference. I can't say I haven't felt this same way when wandering the abyss of bizarre music that this station plays. It's weird, sometimes I don't like it, but sometimes I love it. And I love even more that it is something that belongs, to some extent, only to me.

I guess what I'm trying to convey is that when viewing music tastes as a measure of intelligence, you can get really offended. I get pissed when a band I value and who's intricacies I understand and appreciate becomes loved by people who I feel are not capable of comprehending the art, or who are simply not worthy. It drives me up the wall. This contradiction--this anomaly--gets me all hot and bothered every single time I witness it. It makes me feel like one of those crazy radical Christians spouting hate and violence in service of the loving Jesus Christ. I love my music, but just like these bible-toting maniacs, I find myself only choosing those who are worthy to enjoy specific music, and just bash on those who I feel are not.

Back to the DJ. It was one of the most peculiar experiences of my life. I was sitting in my car and a song by a band called Phoenix was playing. Just a background on Phoenix: they used to be little known, and now they are very, very popular. Just as the song ends, a DJ begins speaking. At first he talks normal DJ talk, speaking of the song and the band, but then he took a very unexpected turn. I cannot recall exactly what was said, but it was something to the tune of this:

"Yes Phoenix, that was an old song we just played for you. Before they transitioned into a more mainstream pop sound. Are you one of those people who get upset by their booming popularity? Do you get mad when you see more and more people like the bands you like? Are you angry when a band you love becomes wildly famous?"

All of which, I reluctantly answered yes to. I wish I could say no, but I was just listening to him waiting anxiously to see what he would say next:

"Or are you one of those people that is able to transcend that? Are you able to see that music is there for everyone to enjoy, and not just you? Are you aware it is an art form for the masses and can be appreciated and interpreted by anyone in the world?"

At this point, I am truly contemplating his words. They are actually affecting me. It was incredible. And lastly comes the most baffling part:

"And you are ok with all of this. Because you know, that you yourself, have THE BEST taste in music in the entire world"

After which I conceitedly, and confidently, said to myself "I really do." Upon which the DJ spoke his last words:

"YOU REALLY DO."

I think this odd, twilight zone-esque encounter has opened my mind. I feel revitalized

On and unrelated note, I CANNOT STAND the fact that Miley Cyrus has the balls to say she likes Bon Iver and Modest Mouse.

Damn, that girl is such an idiot...

Those Demons

Well I've never been one for superstition, but I can say somewhat confidently that the universe pulls pranks on me to make me feel like I'm losing my mind. I can just picture all the weird universe entities laughing at the reality tv show that is my life. Like watching one of those annoying little dogs try to hunt down and proceed to annihilate its own tail.  Both entertaining, and sad. As the audience, we know the dog will never really be able to vanquish its tail, but we allow the poor creature to try and try in spite of what we know is inevitable failure. Why? Because, despite how sad and pitiful the dog is, we find it amusing. It kind of makes me believe the entire human race is secretly suppressing some kind of sociopathic desire to see other creatures suffer. Much like the popularity of professional wresting. Or the national spelling bee (those poor little kids).

Just a little background information to allow the story to retain its ridiculousness, I recently inherited my dad's 2009 Chevy Cobalt after he finally fulfilled his childhood dream of buying an electric car (another of which was his dream of going to Easter Island...which we actually did. Possibly the most random vacation ever). So my new car/his old car was clean, inspected, up to date, and scratch/dent free. My father doesn't usually place too much emphasis on the value of material things, but he made an exception upon passing the keys to me by saying, "Take good care of this car like an adult. LOVE this car". Feeling pressure to keep the vehicle in great shape (a precaution and never cared to take with my old car), I tried my hardest. I avoided curbs, was more cautious on the road, and even spent a whole $7 on a car wash about 2 weeks in to my ownership. I was on the right track, and the car was looking fly. FLYYY.

ANYWAYS, back to my story. The universe's trickery all began when I parked my car outside of my sisters apartment on the street. No big deal. I've done it before a million times. So I'm just hanging out in Cora's (my older sister) apartment watching 30 rock until we both get the sleepies, at which point I pack up my junk and head out.

As I approach my car, I see two young hipsters lurking around the passenger side area of the car. They inconspicuously drifted away as I got closer, and, being spacy and painfully unobservant, I forgot about them and got into my car.

So I'm driving down the drag just settling down from what was a pretty annoying and anxiety-filled day, when I attempt to change lanes. I look over to my right to check my mirror only to discover that no such mirror existed. Immediately I begin to bawl, crying, "Where is my mirrorrrrrrr!?" over and over and over again, with the occasional remark, "What happened to my mirrorrrr?? Where did it goooo??", and every time I glanced over and realized over and over again that it wasn't there, I would just start the wailing cycle all over again.
Needless to say, I should not have been driving under the circumstances, what with my eyes nearly and at times completely obliterating my vision.

So here I am, crying uncontrollably in my car, when I think to myself, "Did I get in a wreck and just can't remember it"? As would be expected, the thought only exacerbated my frenzied state, until I finally arrived (safely, to my surprise) home.  I jump out of the car and examine the mirror scrupulously. Convinced, at the point, that I had somehow been in a wreck within the past 24 hours, I feel this sickening kind of feeling in head, as if I have no control over it. Was I in a wreck? Was I driving my car? Did my car ever have a mirror? Does Asia even exist??

After a long and semi-calming talk with my sister who claimed that someone must have stolen it, I calmed down a little bit. The next day (not really knowing whether or not driving without that mirror is legal or not), I drove to the nearest auto parts store. Upon examining the car and the mirror, the specialist concluded that someone must have stolen it. Finally at least 70% sure I wasn't losing my mind, I began to feel a little less insane. I was in the clear. It would only cost $60 for the new mirror, and the specialist said it was simple and I could do it myself. Thanks a lot, universe, for making me face my worst fear: losing all my mental faculties and rationality. Jerk.

Not the MOST interesting story, but I have another brief incident that kind of further substantiates my case against the cruelty of the universe. It was a few days ago when my contacts had been bothering me, which was strange because my beastly eyes and I had never had trouble with my contacts. Like seriously, very rarely. So I took them out and put them in some contact solution I'd so dashingly discovered at my parents house a few months prior. A couple hours later I try to put them back in. Immediately, I felt like the devil. The contacts made my eyes feel as though they were on fire and possibly on the verge of completely detaching themselves from my face, literally. It was the most bizarre thing I had ever experienced. Never had my contacts left me in so much pain. Despite the peculiarity, I shrugged it off and wore my duct taped glasses for a couple days, after which I decided to try with the contacts once more. Expecting a nice easy application, to my surprise the same I-feel-like-Satan feeling struck through my entire body once more. I hollered and cried for a bit, and then sulked in frustration. What was going on my life? First the suspicious and unconfirmed mirror theft, and now I've got demon eyes? What is going on??? First I'm losing my mind, and then I'm quite possibly turning into a demon? WHAT THE HELL, UNIVERSE??? THIS ISN'T FUNNY!!!

Eventually, my deductive reasoning kicked in and I decided to check the expiration date of the contact solution I was so proud to have not paid for. It turns out, that bottle expired 2 years ago. I could vaguely hear the universe saying "PSYCH! YOU'RE NOT SATAN YOU IDIOT, IT'S YOUR CONTACT SOLUTION!" and chuckling at their successful prank off in the distance.

Just like God, the Devil is everywhere. Even in your contact solution.

The Blend

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

-Albert Einstein

Nothing exhausts me more than the feeling of being held captive in my sister’s car. This in no way reduces the amount of love I feel towards my favorite twin, BUT, in her car she picks the tunes. I am thus corrupted by music I am ashamed to even be aware of (no offense Sarah, but I am pretty sure my whining has made these feelings pretty clear).

Yeah, ok, so this kind of assertion of disdain towards pop music would make anyone seem like a hipster music snob, but snobbery it is not. It is the redundancy of not simply the individual songs that gradually undermines my sanity, because pretty much any radio station, regardless of musical integrity, ends up playing the same songs over and over. But the tipping point into madness is how, with many pop stations, every song is simply a subtle replication of all other songs that infest the airwaves; all-demographic/age-friendly music at its most exemplary.

While getting some community service hours at the Goodwill, I was forced to face my mortality thanks to Sirius/XM’s station called “The Blend”. Though the title of the station barely manages to be accurate without sounding negative, it doesn’t even come close to how nauseating this “blend” actually is. If it were me, I’d call it, “the storm of many vomits”, which is also equally accurate seeing how it is a more specific yet, albeit, less alluring type of “blend”.

The first time I heard “the Blend”, I was not immediately put off, but the frustration began to fester and grow as I began to recognize the pattern of the station’s shameless redundancy. Little did I know, though, that the fact that I actually felt something (hatred) signified a tenuous, but nevertheless existent, attachment to the real world.

As the songs continued to pollute my otherwise scholarly mind, a sort of numbness began to set in. At first, I didn’t notice it, thinking to myself “Wow, Ruth, you really aren’t a music snob! You’re listening to Michael Bublé without cringing”! Then as hours and days passed, like a starving child, I began to long for songs that would have made me wince in pain* if played days earlier. “Thank God! Carrie Underwood!” or, “finally! Something insightful. Thanks for that, Lady Gaga”.  No longer could I recall the beauty and complexity of Arcade Fire or Kurt Vile, but became so desensitized by the unsophisticated nature of “the Blend” that an hour long playlist of Taylor Swift’s all time favorite songs ended up being the highlight of my day. And don’t even get me started on the fit of excitement that ensued when Ace of Base guest hosted for an hour. It felt like an epic liberation worthy of infinite praise, an experience that I honestly still do cherish.

So I was getting my last few hours completed at the Goodwill, hanging up clothes and organizing picture frames in a zombie-like behavior. Then, as I absently looked at my watch, I realized I was done! I got my forms signed and everything, and I called a cab to come get me. Still suffering from the kind of drowsy, seemingly sedated state of mind, for which the torturous “blend” songs I blame, I entered the cab as it arrived. I attempted to small talk with the driver, but I’m fairly certain I failed because awkward silence smothered the both of us for the better part of the ride. However, in my defense, Zombies can’t really small talk.

We stop for gas on the way back, and all of a sudden, my ears begin to perk up. Much like an undomesticated caveman finally experiencing civilization, I barbarically push my head further to front of the car to discover what I’m hearing. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before…except I had heard it, what felt like ages ago. It was a Radiohead song. It seemed so foreign to me at the time, but I eventually began to realize that it was a song I used to love. But did I still love it? Or had my madness transferred this love to the artists of “the Blend”? A little confused and sleep-deprived at this point, I began to remember the life I had left behind for the Goodwill. All the marvelous, intricate, and diverse songs waiting patiently in my iTunes library for me to come back and play. At last, the world regained its color! My mind began to expand to its normal, slightly above average size, and I was FINALLY FREE!

I can't even imagine what prisons like.

Insanity: the state of being seriously mentally ill; madness

- New Oxford American Dictionary

*I am super dramatic and annoying about listening to music I don't like. The pain seems real, but it probably isn't

Story Time: Dictation

To begin this post I will make a statement that you probably have no proof of: I am a lunatic. 


I've never really enjoyed reading. That's not to say that I don't like books, because I love books. Nevertheless, the actual process of reading text has always been a bit of a struggle. My short term memory and lack of concentration skills often leave me reading the same meaningless sentence over and over while my mind is actually considering possible hair styles or a cool new facebook status that will inevitably stun the world. 

Well thank God for audiobooks! Not only does this prevent my abhorrent pronunciation of complex words, but it is also far more convenient than physical books. With the transition to audio versus visual, I finally have the appropriate wording to disguise my idiocy: I am an auditory learner.

Since this is only my second blog, I face the task of writing in a non-academic capacity in which I often wrestle with my brain, trying to find the perfect word to use. However, by the time I start typing the part that I have verbally assembled in my mind, the words vanish. Because of this, I considered the option of simply recording voice memos on my phone before I write so that my thoughts wouldn't have to go through any channels (keyboard, pencil, etc.) other than the synapse that links my head and my voice.

Too bad both my laziness and my aversion to the sound of my own recorded voice prevailed over the voice memo idea. But I am a problem solver. Never will I let something like my voice-consciousness stop me from writing without actually writing...alas! I get the idea to use dictation software! This would eliminate all barriers without having to hear what I perceive to be the awkward, and muffled rasp of my own voice on a recording. First thought, then voice, then text. SO SIMPLE!

So I excitedly download what, according to reviews, seems to the best dictation software in the online market. Upon installation, I  expect for the software to automatically know what I am saying when I speak into my computer's microphone. I anxiously wait the triumph of a problem well-solved...HA. No. Not that AT ALL.

I proceed to open the program, and am presented with a series of stories. Ridiculous stories. Stories about cooking a mean shrimp salad and keeping your lawn both picture and party perfect. I neither desire shrimp, nor do I have an actual yard. So what do these stories have to do with the program? They supposedly help it recognize what your words sound like. The more stories you read, the more accurately your voice will be recognized, or so they say.

So I'm like "Ok. Just a couple stories and then you will have annihilated your challenge and can FINALLY start your blog!"

Awaiting inevitable victory, I read the stories. And as I read about fish and plants, I am able to see which words the computer recognizes and which ones it doesn't. I seem to be doing well. The computer continues to light up green as I trudge through the monotony and frustration of sheerly useless knowledge that belongs nowhere in my brain, but must obnoxiously takes its place anyway, and that I, must allow in.

The end is near! The salad recipe is wrapping up and, at this point, it is 3:00 AM and I can't wait to finally indulge in the voice-recognition software that I have tried so hard to legitimize.

The moment arrives. The story is finished. I don't even think about what I want to say I just start talking nonsense, "Today was like you know ok and then you know it all sort of just ended and the world was still going on and so I went to bed and almost fell asleep but the light kept me up and then you know it was all really awesome". I study the screen, waiting for it to begin writing what I had spoken, and then my glorious text was revealed:

"the aerial oil he narrowing well a yellow also images that it at the the world was still going all of so when that in almost testicle falsely but the lead to me at the you knows all  David really hippocampus"

So wrong. SO wrong. I attempt to calm down as I soothingly reassure myself, "SHIT".  Hours of problem-solving, yet the problem still existed. In my state of near outrage and frustration,  I caught a glance of my clock. It was 5:00 in the morning. I had literally spent 3 hours (during which I should have been sleeping) reading blatantly senseless text, and essentially trying to get a machine to read my thoughts.

TRYING TO GET A MACHINE TO READ MY THOUGHTS.

I am a lunatic. Are you convinced yet? More convincing is yet to come, I assure you.