Electric Nostalgia

I’ll have to admit that I started out 2007 as one of those people who enjoys the entertainment that Disney puts out, but looked with a bit of scorn upon folks who were completely enamored with the whole Disney thing. Eight months later, I hadn’t quite gone to that extreme, but I now have a fondness for Disney that belongs only to people who have worked there. My work experience began that first day that I was introduced to the costuming department and thrust into the organized chaos that is the Disney Dreams Come True Parade (or Day Parade, as those of us working it call it). I soon found myself working 10 hour shifts from 4:30 at night to 3 in the morning, six days a week, for almost 6 months straight on SpectroMagic, the night parade at Magic Kingdom. Of course, I have more stories than I even care to remember from those long, humid nights. One of the things that stand out most vividly in my mind is the time I was almost run over by one of the floats carrying the ostriches from “Fantasia”. Near death experiences aside, I get overwhelmingly nostalgic when I see pictures from the parades I worked. It was, without a doubt, the best eight months of my life and even though I worked with character performers who thought they were God’s gift to entertainment and was always sticky with sweat, I’m glad I did it. There are things that I’ve done that few other people can claim; I’ve carried Cinderella’s dress and helped Minnie put on her shoes. Though I’ve undoubtedly set up a rather utopian idea of the whole experience, it will forever stand out as one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. I made more friends and had more fun in Orlando than I feel I’ll ever have again.

Ever Gentle on My Mind

My feelings about the warped realm of popularity helped develop sensitive, personable side, giving me the ability to empathize with the down trodden and broken hearted.

I’m sitting here in my room, headphones plugged in to my computer, Dean Martin turned up to an unhealthy volume and flowing straight into my temporal lobe (undoubtedly killing brain cells) and I’ll have to admit that anything sensitive, personable or empathetic in my character has completely abandoned me. I’m annoyed. I’m glowering. I’m clenching my jaw (something my dentist has specifically warned against). Why? Dare you ask? Of course you do, however subconsciously. It’s because my roommates have seen fit to throw a dance party in our living room in honor of their Fabulous Valentine’s Day Girls’ Night. I’ll have to admit something at this juncture: I get inwardly annoyed easily and the thing that really gets me is when people are inconsiderate. Of course, since this is an inward annoyance I don’t act upon it. If I did people would start crying and, when you get right down to it, I only make people cry for really good reasons. I also like to think that I’m holding myself to a higher behavioral standard than people who snap at the slightest provocation (go ahead and draw your own conclusions as to whether that’s true or not). I understand it’s Valentine’s Day and most everyone with some semblance of a heart (which clearly excludes me) wants to believe that they’re loved on this day if on no other day out of the year. I however, couldn’t care less. What’s important to me right now is the fact that I have this essay to write, another paper due next week I’d like to get a jump on and, overshadowing every other consideration this evening, a botany test that I have no real desire to fail. And here are my darling roomies playing generally crappy music at a decibel level that makes me feel like I’m living in a speaker. Got to love when Housing tosses you in with people you’d never met before the day you moved in. Cheers, ladies, and I hope you find what you’re looking for out of life.

"Are You Gonna Be My Girl"

Ideally, this would end up being an essay about how music affects me and then I would go on to demonstrate the depth of my music knowledge and how I find meaning in every lyric every penned. However, it’s not. Trying to prove yourself through music is often an exercise in futility as people are bound to judge you based on your musical preference. Despite this, I put some serious thought into what video I was actually going to post. Since my parents are ancient, my musical tastes tend to run more to oldies, classic rock and other music that proves some modicum of actual talent. That being said, I don’t think Jet is a particularly amazing band and this is really a bad music video, but sometimes you need something to crank up and rock out to while driving around with the windows down . If I want to have an intelligent musical experience, more often than not I’ll be listening to The Beatles. Or Simon and Garfunkel. Or the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Or Cake, Julie London, Charlie Parker, Herbie Hancock. But I’m disinclined to turn this into an extensive list because, when you get right down to it, I don’t really care what other people think of what I listen to. I suppose it’s not about the music video itself, but the incisive Lester Bangs-esque commentary I should feel obliged to provide. Sad to say, this is not the song to evoke heart rending anecdotes and observations. Nonetheless, every time I hear that opening bass riff, my body involuntarily starts moving and my legs send that little tickle to my brain saying that they want to dance. Lack of chord variation and allegations of stolen ideas aside, there’s something powerful in the kind of music that just makes you want to get up and move.

Contemplations on a bird's wing

Essays, written on everything from exquisite mold creations to the delicate arch of a bird's wing can speak to audiences in ways never imagined. Really, it is art itself—in all its forms—that hold the ability to open the minds of people and make an impact. It’s that pit-of-your-stomach feeling when you encounter a piece of art, regardless of form, that speaks to you. Recently, I saw The Phantom of the Opera and had a moment like that. It was what theatre should always be. Superbly balanced and excruciatingly acute in its perfection, I walked out of the theatre overwhelmed with senses awhirl. The poetry of e.e. cummings has this same effect on me. I don’t always understand it, but the first reading has a power to confound beyond the capabilities of conventional comprehension. Upon study, more meanings come through which only adds to the layers of appreciation. Dickinson has the reverse effect. Casually intriguing at first glance, study of her syntax leads me to that light bulb feeling of dawning realization. As an English major, I love literature, but even someone who hasn’t invested four or more years of study to the subject can appreciate it. But who holds the power to completely define “art”—or “appreciation”, for that matter? What relevance does a definition hold if the impact remains? One can be equally awed by innovative architecture and a perfect bass line. I argue that nearly ever task calling on concentration and finesse can be considered art. Why should book binding and cooking not be held on the same plane of sophistication and creativity? There is astounding beauty of form even within objects we consider soporific. In my life I will make more of an intentional effort to welcome value where I might initially see none. Of course, even the cynics of the world are needed to perpetuate our existence. If the cynics disappeared, who would be left to laugh at the schadenfreude of everyday life?