Archives: March 5-March 11, 2006

March 5, 2006

Matt and I killed the twelve pack between the two of us. We woke up late Sunday morning, each a little hung over. We did have to get up, though, for Matt to catch his ride back.

And so we sit outside at the bus stop outside the Student Center. From here, Matt will catch a ride to the bus station, wait around for fifteen minutes and catch a bus for a half hour ride, from which he'll transfer to a bus taking him to the City. It seems like a lot of fuss and I wish I could get my hands on a car to at least give him a lift so there's only one bus ride. Couldn't find a car to borrow, though, so this is the best we can do.

“Man, I shoulda eased up last night. It's gonna be a bitch trying to read on the bus with this hangover.”

“Since when have you done the reading for any of your classes?”

“Not a bad point.”

We sit and wait as a cold breeze blows by. Matt bears the brunt of it, happening to sit on the wrong side of the bench. As the wind dies down, Matt turns to me, his hair a mess. “I wanted to say thanks for having me over this weekend. I had a good time.”

“Me too, bro. We'll have to do it again sometime.”

We hear the bus, then turn to see it approaching from a little ways away. “Well we'll have that weekend over spring break.” Matt's spring break starts the same weekend mine ends. We're both planning on going home, so we'll get to hang out for at least a day or two.

“Right on.” As the bus pulls up, we stand and Matt picks up his bag. We shake hands and say so long, as he departs, back to the city, and I head back to Smith Hall to get ready for work at the Front Desk.

March 6, 2006

Dave and my keyboards chatter in rhythm as we each work on our own papers, while Emma lies on my bed, reading over her notes for another exam she has tomorrow. Dave's writing a political science paper, trying to determine how far left he'll be able to go without alienating his professor. I'm working on a critical analysis of two plays for my Irish Drama class. Emma's reading about some ancient music.

“All right, I consider you two pretty normal, everyday people, politically speaking,” Dave says, putting his hands on his head. “So if I told you that an attempted Communist revolution would be good for the US, would you say I was nuts?”

“I thought you were steering clear of talk of Communist revolutions in your papers after the last time.” I say, then finish typing my sentence.

“What happened the last time?” Emma asks.

“Well let's just say that Dr. Glonten is a little more conservative than our friend Dave here.”

“The son of a bitch gave a C- because he didn't agree with my opinion,” Dave says. “It's BS. I don't agree with his lectures. He under-represents the leftist view. But if he's well-researched, I'd still give him at least a B for the effort.”

“Alas, the direction of the grading always favors the instructor,” Emma says, looking back down at her notes.

“But that's just demonstrative of the bigger picture, isn't it. The so-called intellectual elite—these PhDs—reign over the undergrads. Not entirely different from the rich making the rules for the poor.”

“Why don't you write your paper about that?” I ask.

“He wouldn't buy it,” Dave says. “But that just further proves my point—the elite think they know what's best for everyone. Whereas if they would just appreciate that everyone has their own different but equal roles, and that wisdom is a continuum, they would appreciate everyone's contributions, and society would be the better for it.”

“Stunning argument,” I say.

“Was I still supposed to be listening to this commie drivel?” Emma asks, not looking up.

“Screw you guys,” Dave says, getting his answer and getting back to work.

March 7, 2006

“Da-da-da-da,” Emma sings along to an instrumental piece, heavy on the brass. In a moment, she identifies the name of the piece, composer and year it was written, all completely foreign to me. I'm helping Emma studying for a listening test in her Music of the World class tomorrow. She's listened to obscure piece after obscure piece. Of course anything older than what I'd term classic rock is unfamiliar territory in my mind.

Nonetheless, I can tell that Emma's right. I hold a stack of note cards, corresponding with numbered files on Emma's PC. “Right-o,” I say and double click on the next file. She knows all of the answers, and it's actually sort of fun trying to test her. After a string of right answers, I start playing only shorter snippets of the songs, challenging her to identify them in five seconds or less, before I finally open an MP3 of a Directionals song. Emma gets up and slaps the back of my head.

“What, can't figure this one out?”

“Jerk.”

“Yeah, I guess this is pretty bad.”

“Har, har,” Emma says climbing onto my lap, straddling and kissing me. She bought us two tickets for The Directionals show here at Taylor College. It's a little sad to think that after all that Sam and I uncovered in our story about the SA scandal, what people will probably remember most about the whole deal is this emo concert in the gymnasium.

The show is going to make Emma happy, though, and crappy music aside we probably will have a pretty good time. Hell, even now I'm having a good time with this studying. Of course, as I kiss at her neck, I suppose it's only studying in the loosest sense of the word.

March 8, 2006

“How are you doing, Presto?” Sam asks as I sit across the table from him at Luigi's. He asked me to meet him here for dinner, as he took a break from preparing tomorrow's Window

“I'm not gonna lie—you've got me a little unsettled. Last time you took me out for pizza it turned out to be a pretty big deal.”

Sam chuckles. “How'd all those papers and tests go for you?”

“It was just papers—that's the beauty of being an English major.” I take a bite of my slice. “But they turned out all right. Should be in the clear for at least a couple weeks now.”

“So that would mean you'd have some more time to devote to the newspaper then?”

I look down, shaking my head. “What, you got another blockbuster story for me?”

“Na—this is more like a job offer.”

I look up.

“At the end of the month, I'm going to run to take Larry's spot as the Editor in Chief. I want you as my News Editor.”

I take another bite, thinking. “What about Carrie? I mean, she's the interim Editor in Chief.”

“That's based on position. She was the Managing Editor, so she automatically becomes the Editor in Chief in a situation like this. But if you'd been in the office last week or today, you would know that I'm already doing that job.” Sam takes a sip of his soda. “Don't get me wrong—she's good at what she does. She keeps things organized, and she's good at helping people through layout issues and all. But when it comes time to make a decision—what story to run, what part to cut—she can't make those calls.”

“And you can?”

“I might not always make the right call. But I'll make a call and I'll run with it.”

“All right, so let's say you do take over. Why me for News Editor? I mean before last week, I never had a real story.”

“But when the ball came at you, you knew when to swing. Even when Larry was telling you to let it go, you kept swinging for the homerun. And you hit it. This is my third year here and we've never run a story like that. That's why I want you on my team.”

I lean back. “All right, but saying I do run, what makes you think I'll get voted in. If any of your other writers run, they have the experience on me—”

“Because I'm making this decision,” Sam cuts me short. “If I back you up, you aren't going to lose. People know me and they're gonna listen to me.”

I think for a moment. Sam's the reason I started working for the paper, and it's a real compliment to hear what he has to say. But I never planned on taking on something this big. “Tell me more about the job.”

March 9, 2006

I wanted to show Emma that I was taking an active interest in things that were important to her. With her a cappella group, The Off Beats, getting ready for to go into competition in a few weeks, I figured taking a greater interest in that group would be a good place start. After we talked about it for a while, this evening is the first time when I sit in on an Off Beats rehearsal.

As the director, Veronica presides over it, having the girls stand in a circle around her, as she leads them through a series of warm ups, singing out notes or scales that the girls then sing back to her. They match her pitch each to time, singing higher or lower. I can hear the notes in my head, but can't conceive of how to do what they do.

Veronica is friends with the girls—I've seen that from outside the rehearsal room. But here, surrounded by music stands and a few odd instruments from other groups, Veronica is very much in charge. As the rehearsal progresses, she tells Emma to “Pipe down,” as she giggles over something with another one of the girls. She makes them all sing parts over again when they miss notes or rhythms.

Veronica spends much of the rehearsal at a piano in the front of the room, while the girls sit at desks, as if in a conventional classroom. Veronica plays one of the parts, then sings with the girls, moving into full-fledged a cappella mode as they work through a new song. From what Emma tells me, Veronica arranged most of the songs—converted them to the version that they sing—and knows all of the parts, inside and out. She stops the group and asks just the tenors to sing their part, starting in a particular measure. The tenors rise to the challenge.

On stage, The Off Beats looks fun and free-flowing, not like the formal choirs at the college. Behind the scenes, I sense I'm seeing more. Veronica moves to a chalk board and marks Xs to show the formation she wants to stand in for the song, and then how she wants them to move, laying out the choreography. They are preparing to compete. If Veronica has anything to say about it, they won't only win, but blow the competition away.

March 10, 2006

I lie in my bed, Emma in my arms, already asleep, breathing slowly and audibly. We're spooning, one of my arms hugging hers, and the other beneath her neck and shoulder. When I can find just the right spot with that other arm, it's comfortable for both of us. As it stands, Emma will push my arm away when she wakes, if I don't have to move before then as it grows tingly with loss of circulation.

My mind shifts to the News Editor gig. It's something I've been thinking of and off for these past two days—since Sam brought it up at Luigi's. I think about the time it would take. I could stand to take on something extra. As much as I have my busy times, in general, I have time to spare and could stand to pick up an extra job. But then, from what Sam was telling me, this gig is 15-20 hours a week—maybe as high as 25-30 when I'm still learning the ropes or when it's a big news week. That's more than an extra part time job. I think of how that would mean less time I could spend with Emma, or how my mind would always turn to something else.

But then, there's a part of it that's exciting. The Chilling article gave me a taste of the kind of stuff I want to write—the big stories I could break. Granted, I wouldn't expect for there to be another story like that very soon, but I may never know if I don't take a position like this.

I never wanted to pursue a career in journalism
professionally, and I tend to look at these editor spots as jobs for those sorts of people—comm majors who need the experience and the credential on their resumes. But then I wonder if being a reporter would be so bad. After all, I've never had a clear idea of what I want to do for a career. Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad road to walk down.

I couldn't give Sam a definite answer the other night, and he didn't press me for one. He said I should think about and let him know. My mind still isn't made up.

March 11, 2006

On a whim, Dave bought a little plastic basketball hoop and orange foam ball, that he has since hung with suction cups to the inside of the door to our room. On the surface, this seemed pretty insignificant. In practice, it may prove a detriment to both of our academic futures.

Since he hung the thing this morning, we've had at least 15 shooting contests, sitting at our respective desks and launching the ball at the hoop. Beyond that, I've found my self carelessly shooting the ball at random intervals. It's addictive.

“So if you do the editor thing, do you get paid?” Dave asks, taking a shot. It bounces off the backboard and rolls toward me.

I pick up the ball myself and shoot it, making a sloppy shot. “Yeah, there's a stipend,” I say as Dave stands, retrieving the ball and tossing it back to me underhand. “But when you add up the hours, it amounts to about a buck an hour.”

“Sounds like a pretty stellar gig.”

“Well the money would be nice, but if I do this, it's more about the experience. I mean, I know I'd learn a lot. And it'd be pretty cool to run a section of the paper like that.”

“Wouldn't look bad on a resume either.”

“Exactly. But the downside is, it is the kind of resume booster where I'd have to earn it.”

“Ha—an honest day's work would be good for you.”

“Says the guy who needs me to explain Glen's Cottage to him before Brit Lit Tuesday, because he's too lazy to read it himself.

“Touché,” Dave says, standing again to catch to pick up the ball by the door. He carries out a dramatic one-handed dunk before tossing the ball back to me and picking up his pea coat from where he had left in a heap on the ground. “I'm gonna step out for a smoke.”

“You'll never make the NBA if you have emphysema.”

“Har, har.” Dave opens the door. “See you in a few.”