I always thought that dolphins rule.
Actually, this is a true story. On my enjoyable family vacation, my parents, brother, sister, and I all went to Cocoa Beach, Florida. We had a nice condo on the beach for a week, and we basically did nothing. Anyways, one morning I went for a bit of a swim out into the ocean, and, being a fairly good swimmer, I went out pretty far. I was probably around 300 yards from shore, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fin.
I didn't even bother to wonder what the fin was, I just booked it. I can honestly say that, through my 20 years of swimming, I have never swam faster than those 3 minutes. The whole time that I was thrashing about, I just kept looking over my shoulder, wondering when those teeth were going to sink into me.
By the time I got to shore, I was so out of breath that I could barely hear my mother asking me, "Hey, did you see that school of dolphins that was swimming next to you?"
Not funny, God.
Ok, well maybe a little...
My close friend Owen really pushed
the new Jimmy Eat World album on me about 6 weeks ago or so, and let me tell you, this one is fantastic. It's one of those albums that I feel accessorizes life in a sense, in that it's able to take the mood of any given situation and both amplify and clarify it.
Additionally, this album has taken a bit of strange significance in my life lately, as it features the only song I know of that mentions being 23 years old. At the time I'm writing this post, I am in fact only about 60 minutes away from this banal reality. While I may sound as if I'm waxing poetic about being younger than I currently am, I'm really trying to steer this rant in another direction, that of expectations, or more appropriately, lack thereof.
Because, in fact, 23 is a shitty age to be. Also, I really can't look forward to 24, 25, or 26 anymore either. This is not because I'm morbidly obsessing over my own demise, but instead because there is just simply nothing cool about being anything older than 21. My simple assertion is that there is nothing to look forward to which is specifically tied to age beyond 21.
This seems quite evident to me, since, beyond 21, you can do anything. I had the exact same rights the instant I was carded by a cop while buying my first legal beer as I have now. When I mention this to people, they seem almost offended that I should bring this up, as if I'm complaining about getting older or some such nonsense. Yet, that's not my suggested remedy for the boring complacency which has become birthdays. Instead, I want to invent things that people should be able to do at certain ages in their lives.
Let's take for instance that magical day when I am about to turn 30. Standing there, clutching to my last remnants of a decade when I could still wear jeans in public, I would like to at least look forward to a nice week long vacation. I may not even be employed at this point in my life, but honestly, who cares? I think 30 year olds should all be granted a sort of toned-down miniature bachelor party.
Which leads me right into my next topic; reality television dating shows. This very evening, I was privileged to witness the engagement of Maria Somethingoranother and Tuuurrrin Whatisface. I have no clue who these people are, though they seem to be almost certainly partially invented in their presentation to me by whoever edits these TV shows. Anyway, I was sitting around and found myself hijacked, forced to watch the final rose ceremony by my mother, and I just quite honestly couldn't believe the bullshit that is now television.
For starters, I swear that the camera people put something in the water (or, more likely, all these people do during filming is drink). While I know that this past episode was the guy's "top 2" women, and therefore he should "naturally" develop a sort of intimacy with them, all these people did was make out. The pretenses under which the TV host sets these scenarios up are fricking ridiculous too, such as "will Maria be able to withstand T's grueling interview in the hot tub?? We'll find out!" This episode, the bachelor actually took the two women out to see his house, which, like every good eligible bachelor, is 5,000 sq. ft. and overlooks a lake in Nevada.
My shock at just how blatantly superficial these shows are only grew after speaking further with my mom. I asked her, quite innocuously, how long the people on the show had known each other. After some unsure reflection and 1/2 a People magazine for reference, Mama Lisy was sure that the period of time was around 6 weeks.
6 weeks!? Who are these people kidding?! These television shows are promising instant, on air engagements from relationships that have the depth of a long version of band camp.
I for one, still think that real, no-shit-it's-here, love takes at least some measure of patience to discern, and that these fairy-tale-made-real scenarios are actually quite detrimental to how men and women relate. A successful relationship shouldn't be built on a single evening spent in a hot tub with some wine and sweet words, but instead on some common ground which should be built over time. I think that the idea that a big party or a chance meeting will not only be where you meet your true love, but where you instantly know that you belong together forever, is horseshit.
But then again, I could be wrong. I mean, those people are
on TV.
At the request of a certain BDH (Bad Dry Humor, if you weren't a frequent visitor to the Denison weight room last year at around 5 AM), I've been asked to explain the etymology of the title of my blog "Been Down Hearted".
Like many of my quotations and cultural references, this title has a few levels. It's most basic explanation is that it's a quote from the B.B. King song, "How Blue Can You Get?". I am a big fan of B.B. King, and have actually seen him in concert 3 different times. I even got the tickets and program from one of those concerts framed. He's just an amazing artist.
The less well known explanation is that the same lyric is sampled in a fantastic song by a band called Primitive Radio Gods, in their song "Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand". I've always felt a bit sad that Primitive Radio Gods never made it 'big time', since Chris O'Connor made some fantastic albums. Honestly, please go out and buy their CD "White Hot Peach", set your CD player on repeat, and listen to "Fading Out". The breath and depth of this band is literally unreal, and I feel they were fantastically underappreciated even by the "underground" music folks.
At
the time when I created this little haven of mine on the internet everything in my life was going great, so I really didn't pick a depressing sounding name for effect, even though I may have been sounding like that as of late.
So, there you have it, all my reasons for choosing my title.
It's been bugging me recently that when someone
google's for my name the first few results they get are from
my high school swimming career. So, since I'd like to think that I've progressed since then, I'm asking those of you who read my site to do me a favor.
Simply put, Google 'ranks' search results by the number of other pages that link to a certain page. So, if I were to include a link to
any one of Owen McGrann's sites, it would boost his rankings the next time Google builds it's index.
So, as a favor to me, if you run a website of any note, go ahead and link to me.
I'll do the same, for instance,
Giancarlo Milano's blog is a fricking riot, even if he's 'done with it'. Also,
Digi's blog is quality too, even if he doesn't update it nearly enough. My
sister Sam has a site too, with a quality link to a
way to rank your political affiliation. My buddy
Mitch Simon has a blog, as does William Adam Pratt, and
Mark Dunbar.
Whew, I think that's all of them. Now that I'm done
kissing ass, I think I'll just wrap this post up with a cool link and a goodbye.
On that note, I have
the same political leanings as Ghandi. Adios.
I've just been informed that my readership has expanded yet again. It seems that
someone who shall remain nameless has found my website. Here's to hoping that all of Case Western doesn't start wanting to
give me a shout out over AOL instant messenger. Eh, whatever, I mean, I figure that I'll have to stop posting disgusting stuff anyways. Besides, I can just leave that up to the pros.
Also, I find it sad that I have to defend
The Royal Tennanbaums. That movie is fantastic, and Wes Anderson is a visionary director, easily on par with the likes of Charlie Kaufman. Enough said.
By the way, heed this person's advice. Never post your picture on the internet.
I'm predicting that
this movie will be the funniest thing on film since The Royal Tennebaums. And also, I love Bill Murray.
Rembember, don't blog angry.
