Too Much Access

Seth Godin wrote a wonderful post called "In and Out" that I'm having a very hard time not just completely copying and pasting here:

There used to be a significant limit on available intake. Once you read all the books in the college library on your topic, it was time to start writing.

Now that the availability of opinions, expertise and email is infinite, I think the last part of that sentence is the most important:

Time to start writing.

Or whatever it is you're not doing, merely planning on doing.

He wrote that post on January 31st. I've been thinking about it a lot since then.

Thanks to where I am in time and space, I've got access to a lot of different bits and pieces of media. I can order just about any book, recording, game, or movie on Amazon. And if I don't want to pay for it – and I don't mind only having access to it for a little while – there's a good chance I'll be able to get it for a while from the Chicago Public Library, which, as of late, has made buying books unnecessary.

And then there's Netflix. Don't even get me started on Watch Instantly. Even though the selection on that still has a way to go, there's still a lot of stuff to keep a person occupied for days and weeks at a time.

But there's still non-legal means of getting content, if you're into that sort of thing. (I prefer to get my media legally – it's usually the most convenient and best-quality solution, but no judgement calls if you're unable or unwilling to do that.) And that opens the number of books, movies, shows, albums and games that you can experience to hundreds of thousands – maybe even millions – of individual pieces of media.

Not all of it is worth bothering with, but there's a lot of really great stuff out there. Every now and then I struggle with the fact that I'm going to only experience about a percent of the great art that's ever been created. And it's not that I don't try. As a film student, I'm surrounded by students who've seen more movies than I'll ever dream of checking out. And so for every movie I watch on Netflix, I seem to add three more.

I appreciate that you and I are at a point in human history where we have access to more new experiences than any single sedentary human being has ever had access to before. I think it's pretty awesome that, if I wanted, I could click on the window behind this one and start watching any one of the 160 movies in my instant queue.

But sometimes it feels like a chore. The ever-growing number on my Amazon book wishlist and Netflix queue make me feel like I'm up against some insurmountable task – which I am, I guess. And sometimes that actually stresses me out. It makes me feel like I don't know enough. Maybe on some level it makes me acutely aware of my own mortality; that no matter how hard I try, I'm going to die with bunches and bunches of desired moments unexperienced.

And sometimes I'm afraid of just what Godin talks about in his blog post. That, because I have access to all this fantastic stuff out there, I'm spending far too much time soaking in and not enough time sponging out? There's gotta be a better way to say that creating. And sometimes I wonder that even if I didn't have access to all this media, I'd still find some other way to dick around and procrastinate from actually making stuff.

Sometimes I wish that I didn't have all of this choice. But if I didn't, I'd probably be wishing that I lived in the Library of Alexandria instead.

Rating Music

Ever since I started my iTunes library in the eighth grade (about seven years ago, holy shit), I've always done my best to try to rate all of my songs. Before I started using iTunes, I was unfamiliar with the concept of being able to add ratings to songs. Ditto with album artwork. But when I learned that the option was available to me, I figured that I might as well do it.

And now, for the first time since – I don't know, ninth grade? – I managed to listen to and rate all the music in my iTunes library. It doesn't really mean a lot in the grand scheme of things, but I like to keep my stuff on iTunes nice and organized.

It's kind of amazing that a person can have so much music sitting on their computer that they don't even recognize half of the stuff when they press the shuffle button.

I Forgot I Was Watching

There's a standby piece of criticism – positive criticism, mind you – that I seem to hear being thrown around a lot in film school: I forgot I was watching a movie.

Bullshit.

First of all: I know you don't mean it literally, but it sounds dumb. It makes me think of the fabled first-ever film audience who all ducked down and screamed when they saw a picture of a train heading toward them on the screen. Maybe I'm alone in this, but I'm hyper-aware of the fact that I'm consuming media – even when I'm in the act of consuming it.

Second of all: it's vague. Really, really vague. Try to think: what was it about you were watching that supposedly had this effect on you? It'll be more helpful for both you – after all, it's nice sometimes to know what's going on in your own head – and to whoever made the film, if they happen to be around. Was it that the dialogue was realistic? Say that. Was it that an actor gave an emotionally gripping performance? Say that. Was it just that the pictures onscreen were really, really pretty? Say that.

But don't just say that you forgot you were watching a movie. It doesn't work when describing what makes a film compelling. It certainly doesn't work when you apply to compliment to something that isn't film. "Wow. This beer is so good that I forgot that I was drinking it."

Okay. Actually, in a way, that one works. But for different reasons.

Thomas, Meet Tommy

My first visit to The Room at the Music Box Theater was just okay. The experience overall wasn't regrettable; however, there was one group of high school kids at the screening I went to that more or less tried to "own" the screening. They seemed to be more interested in shouting just-the-right-line at just-the-right-time rather than letting folks go nuts and come up with their own crazy stuff to say at the screening.

Not so with the screening I attended on Friday. There were two key differences between that screening and this one, though. One was that the theater was completely packed. (According to the theater's website, it once had a capacity of 800. I wouldn't be surprised if the capacity today was just a little under that.) Two was that Tommy Wiseau, the writer/director/producer/actor/madman responsible for the film was actually there.


And Wiseau wasn't alone. To my surprise, Greg Sestero, the film's line producer and actor responsible for playing Wiseau's character's "best friend" (and don't you forget – it feels like the phrase is uttered at least twelve times in the movie) was also there. Maybe it was announced beforehand, but I was unaware he was going to show up. It was a fantastic surprise. Sestero makes for a fantastic straight man to Wiseau's craziness. Where it seems as if Wiseau is somewhat oblivious as to what really gets people excited about The Room, Sestero is totally aware, although not to the point of apparent embarrassment. ("Has this ever stopped being weird for you?" I asked him. "I've kind of become numb to it all," he replied.)

Though the screening itself was wonderful – a special highlight was the impromptu chants of "U.S.A! U.S.A!" during key moments like sex scenes – the real magic came from the Q & A sessions before and after the movie. Before the film, Wiseau called some folks up onstage to answer questions about the movie since none of the mics were working. ("YOU HAVE TO SPEAK WITH YOUR VOICE UP!" he told the particularly sheepish people who joined him.) And thanks to my long skinny legs, I somehow managed to be one of those people.

A friend of mine from Columbia uploaded a video of the Q & A on Facebook. Unfortunately, it's not viewable to folks who aren't friends with him; I'm trying to get a copy that I can upload on my own. But the gist of the conversation was that Tommy and I bonded over the fact that our first names are very similar.

"Thomas and Tommy are so close, remember," he said. "I'll call you Tommy, what about that?"
"I'll call you Thomas!" We fist bumped.

The second best part of the Q & A? Someone asked him what advice he had for the people of Egypt. He paused for a moment. "Go see The Room a hundred times," he replied. The crowd roared.

We crossed paths again after I stepped out to use the restroom. I saw him chatting with a guy who identified himself as a film student at DePaul. The next thing I knew we were having a discussion about film tech and how I was going to be shooting on honest-to-goodness film for the first time ever in just a few weeks' time.

"Try your best to use Zeiss lens," he said.
"We're going to be using a Bolex camera," I said. "I don't know if we'll have that kind of versatility; it's pretty old."
"But the old cameras can make the most beautiful images," he noted.

He may be a very strange guy – and he may have made a very strange movie – but I'll give him this: he's a hell of a lot of fun to talk to and very nice to his fans. And though The Room isn't Citizen Kane, that's got to at least count for something.

Nine Years

As of this very minute, that's how old this blog is. (No, I didn't sit at my computer and wait for it to strike 6:48 PM exactly. I cheated – this is a scheduled post.)

This would be a good time for me to go back through my blog's archives and read through all the posts I've accumulated over the course of nearly a decade, but honestly, that would be 1.) very time consuming and 2.) somewhat emotionally exhausting. I've occasionally flipped through the archives here per the recommendations of a few friends. It's enlightening, but it's not pretty. It's sort of like having the opportunity to go back in time and converse with your older self. Like any time travel story, it has the potential to really fuck with the time traveler in question.

If there are any of you who have been reading this thing since I started in in sixth grade – well, thanks. Thanks if you read this in general, I guess – I'd like to even thank you if you don't do a whole lot more than  skim through the actual content here and click on the links in the sidebar. This thing is more or less a solitary endeavor for me, but it's nice when I hear that something I've put here has entertained someone other than myself.

Next year this thing will be a decade old. Believe it or not, that's a birthday that I've been thinking about ever since this blog's first one.

Ambient/Furniture Music

I've always had a little bit of a bias against electronic music. For a very long time I'd never actually been exposed to electronic music that was any good. Most of it was a little too repetitive for my taste; not trance-like, just looped over and over and over, as if it was made by some kid who was just messing around with Apple Loops in GarageBand.

Ambient music in particular seemed to always be a glowing example of what was wrong with so-called electronic music. John Flansburgh of They Might Be Giants wondered if "it takes more time to listen to it than it does to make" – that summed up my feelings regarding all things ambient pretty perfectly.

And then when I started at Shimer, my feelings regarding ambient started to change a little bit. I like to work with background music – sometimes silence is okay, but some sort of organized noise behind me helps to kick my mind into a sense of motion.

For a long time I was able to get work done with my old standby – music in the pop/rock vain – playing in the background. But after spending a little bit of time in Humanities 1, Shimer's introduction to the worlds of music and visual art, I found it nearly impossible to do any intellectual sort of work with pop/rock music going on at the same time. I'd find myself analyzing chord changes and melodic intervals (something I'm already predisposed to doing when I listen to music) as a sort of extension of the work they were trying to get us to do in Hum 1. Every now and then I'd try to think about how the lyrics of whatever I was listening to corresponded to what was going on with the song melodically.

To have something like that going on in your head while doing schoolwork is bad; to have something like that going on in your head while you're trying to figure out just what the hell Aristotle is talking about in the Physics is even worse.

So I tried a different genre as background music – classical. That didn't work much better. Though there are rarely words in classical music, I still had plenty to try to figure out while I was supposed to be doing other work.

Exasperated, I tried an ambient station on Pandora. And that worked supremely well.

I don't think I've ever listened to ambient music for the sake of listening to ambient music. In fact, I almost hesitate to call it music – and I don't mean that as a bad thing. Erik Satie, classical composer best known for his beautiful piano solo pieces he called the Gymnopédies (don't ask me why the pianist is playing music to ducks) coined the term "furniture music" to describe the sort of stuff he was attempting to create – pleasant music that could be played in the background without being distracting. Almost like a piece of furniture – it's supposed to just sit there and be of service when necessary, if that makes any sense.

And I think that's the best way to approach ambient music. For me, putting on an ambient album is sort of like turning on a lamp. It certainly has a purpose in a room, but it isn't mean to be stared at.

I'd like to make a distinction, though, between ambient music and elevator music, or Muzak. Elevator music is cheesy; it's something that I think is supposed to have the same purpose as ambient music – to do its magic in the background without distracting – but it fails. The cheesiness ends up making it distracting.

Ambient music, on the other hand, is like a nice windchime on a day with a bit of a breeze. Yes, it's repetitive. Yes, you'll notice it every now and then. But it's still beautiful – and ideally it won't take up any more than 10% of your attention. And yet if it stopped, you'd notice the silence. And maybe you'd be disappointed by it.

Super Bowl and Groupon

I didn't watch the Super Bowl this year. I don't think I've ever chosen to watch the Super Bowl; I've just always happened to be around a television with the game on when it was taking place.

Last year (in fact, exactly a year ago today) I wrote a post about the Super Bowl. I mentioned that because of the internet and video sharing sites like YouTube, funny 30 second ads don't have quite as tight of a hold on our pop-culture consciousness as they used to. I doubt that we'll ever see an ad again that has the cultural impact of Apple's 1984 ad – or even Pepsi's dancing bears ad, for that matter.

I can only think of two ads that I heard anything about this year. The first was one for Doritos, which features an enthusiastic pug. (To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what made that ad so buzzworthy. But maybe I've been watching too many funny animal videos on YouTube.)

The second one – and the one that got more attention, I think – was for Groupon, which ran an ad that was (sort of) about the plight of the Tibetan people. You can watch it here, if you haven't seen it already.

The Groupon ad marks the first time I've heard unequivocally negative chatter about a Super Bowl ad. Folks populating my Facebook and Twitter feeds have called it misguided at best and offensive and/or insensitive at worst. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what the folks at Groupon or its agency were going for when they aired the ad. They'd have to be braindead to think that it would be received warmly, and I'm pretty sure they aren't. And yet, on a post at the Groupon Blog today:

Our ads highlight the often trivial nature of stuff on Groupon when juxtaposed against bigger world issues, making fun of Groupon...We would never have run these ads if we thought they trivialized the causes – even if we didn’t take them as seriously as we do, what type of company would go out of their way to be so antagonistic?

And yet I have a hard time believing that the folks at Groupon were completely oblivious to the sort of reception that the ad could have – and ultimately did – receive. 

I feel like I'm being incredibly cynical here, but let's face it: a company that goes out of its way to be antagonistic is going to get far more attention than a company that goes out of its way to be altruistic. What's more interesting: a company representative giving a customer a refund, or a company representative telling that same customer to fuck off? The latter doesn't happen as frequently – as far as I'm aware, at least.

Maybe I'm wrong. The idealistic part of me hopes I'm wrong. And yet if it turns out that Groupon and friends weren't trying to make an antagonistic ad, it means that a team comprised of highly paid individuals were dumb enough to run the thing – which isn't exactly reassuring either.

Either way, though, in spite of all the calls for boycotts that I've run across, a tweet by an old DePaul friend of mine, Emily Martinez, sums up the fallout of the ad pretty succinctly: "You'll probably end up purchasing a Groupon before they save Tibet." (I'm assuming that "they" refers to The Powers That Be rather than Groupon – but, either way, she has a point: I don't think either one is going to happen anytime soon.)

In the meantime, I think it's safe to say that the number of Tibet jokes we see in ads will drop back down to zero. Really, really soon.

Thoughts on BioShock 2

I've never been very good at completing video games. I'd say that I've actually beaten only about 20% of the video games that I've ever owned. I'm still a little ashamed to admit that, despite having first played Super Mario Bros when I was five years old, I still haven't completely finished the thing from beginning to end. The inability to save one's game is part of the problem, sure, but I think the real issue is that I often get frustrated playing games. I inevitably hit a moment that I just can't figure out, may it be a result of bad level design, slow reflexes, or general dumbness on my part. That's usually when I quit. At that point, the game stops being fun and becomes work. (That's probably why my obsession with The Sims flared out just as quickly as it erupted.)

The only games I seem to beat are the ones I'm incredibly enthusiastic about. Most of the games in the Mario series come to mind, as does every single-player game that Valve (of Half-Life fame) has created. And then there's BioShock.

BioShock was one of those rare games that transformed the way I look at the medium of gaming. I was already aware that video games were capable of telling stories – albeit generally rather simple ones by means of conventions from its closest medium, cinema – and I knew very well that video games could create immersive environments that stay with you for years and years. (Myst comes to mind.) BioShock did both of those things very well; however, that in and of itself isn't exactly what you'd call transformative.

So where did BioShock succeed where no other game I'd played before failed? One word: theme. BioShock managed to explore themes that I didn't think video games were capable of tackling. BioShock was primarily focused around Ayn Rand's philosophy, objectivism. Some call it a perfect manifestation of reason and truth; others call it nothing more than pure selfishness. (If you ask me, it's a flawed but thought-provoking system of thought that polarizes folks like no other I'm familiar with.)

That's not all that BioShock's concerned with, though. Free will's another big deal in the world of BioShock – notably, whether or not you, the game and world's primary protagonist, actually has it. Free will, as it turns out, is a perfect theme for video games to explore. Because of design and technological limitations, video games can't quite afford to give players today complete free will. Eventually, when you're playing a game, you'll hit some sort of wall, may it come in the form of a plane constriction (see 2D side-scrollers), an action that you're incapable of performing ("If I can kill a giant armored monster with this gun, why can't I just blow down this goddamn door?"), or a literal wall. (Super Mario 64's invisible walls that surround levels a la Stephen King's Under the Dome come to mind.) In BioShock, this sort of limitation becomes a legitimate plot point that doesn't come off as a cheap look-at-me-I'm-breaking-the-fourth-wall experience. Instead, it makes for one of the most compelling scenes that I've ever witnessed in a game. (Unfortunately, it appears just barely halfway through the game, which makes the rest of the game feel a little...well, empty in comparison.)

BioShock was by no means perfect, but it was certainly groundbreaking. To see it become a critical and commercial success was reassuring – it seemed as if people actually wanted to see these sorts of things in games. Maybe, I thought, video games would start to get gutsier in the ideas and subject matter they'd explore.

And then the sequel was announced, which was awesome and kind of scary. The reasons for awesomeness, I think, are self-evident. BioShock was awesome – even if the next game was just half as awesome, it'd still be pretty damn fantastic. But then their was the issue of scariness. What if they fucked this up? Would it tarnish the impact of the first game? Would it send a message to other developers that the success of BioShock was a fluke; that it wasn't possible to recreate that sort of magic? And then it was announced that a different team would be taking over for the development of the sequel. Uh-oh.

I picked up the game not long after it came out last year; unfortunately, I've never really had much of a chance to play it since then. Then the Snowpocalypse of 2011 hit the midwest. With that came a five-day weekend. Over a couple of days, I managed to make my way through BioShock 2 – and actually complete the thing – in about three or four long sittings.

The verdict? My fears were unfounded. True, the world of BioShock – the underwater city of Rapture – isn't quite as mysterious or compelling the second time around. And that being said, I was very afraid that the sequel wouldn't do anything more than retread all the elements of the first. But, as it turns out, BioShock 2 is the yang to its progenitor's yin.

Instead of focusing on objectivism and the glorification of the individual once again, BioShock 2 takes a different approach. This time, it's about collectivism. Out of the wreckage of the first game, a new leader has emerged. Part of me wants to refer to their proposed system of governance as communism, but as the game progresses, it becomes clear that, thanks to some sci-fi craziness and genetic modification, the label "communism" doesn't quite fit.

In fact, there are moments throughout BioShock 2 that feel like shadow versions of events that took place in BioShock. And they're really, really clever. I'd like to give some examples here, but I think it'd be unfair to those who have yet to play either of the games.

And on top of that, the game's a lot of fun. The story isn't as compelling as the first, but I think it's safe to say that, in terms of play mechanics, the second game is actually a lot more fun than the first.

After playing games like BioShock and its sequel, I start to get filled with a sense of excitement. The urge to make something similar. And then disappointment comes; I realize that I don't know how to write even the simplest piece of code. But I'm young. Resources abound. I'm sure I could learn.

911 Snowblizzard Sandwich Tuesday

It's been a weird past couple of weeks. Tuesday was pretty strange in particular.

I had to wake up earlier than usual – which is still pretty early for me, since it's an 8:30 class – to head down to the MPC, Columbia's new production building. It's filled with all sorts of fancy equipment and studios.

So anyway, we're all standing around after rolling out of bed, checking Columbia's website, praying for a delay, learning that only classes past 12:30 would be canceled, cursing the Columbia Gods for canceling class only ten minutes after our class gets out, and, finally, trudging through the snow that's starting to pile up on the sidewalks. We're listening to this guy – he's a professional assistant director, so he knows a thing or two about how to work on a set – and we're all being very patient and attentive, especially considering where our all of our minds are right now: on the huge fucking storm that's (supposedly) supposed to strike at any moment.

And then there's a thump. The room's really big, so the sound echoes around quiet easily. Everyone looks to the source of the sound. And there's one of the girls from one of the classes. She's just lying there on the floor.

For about five seconds that's all we're doing. Just looking at her. My thought process during those five seconds went something like this:

• Seconds 1 through 2: Holy crap. That girl just fainted. Is she okay? I hope she's okay.
• Seconds 3 through 5: Nobody's doing anything. We're just staring at her. Are we supposed to just be doing this? We probably aren't supposed to be doing this. Someone should probably do something. Crap. Nobody's doing anything.

At which point I say – more like shout – "IS SOMEBODY GOING TO CALL 911 OKAY I'M GOING TO CALL 911."

I've told this story to a few people. This is usually the part where they congratulate me. "Good job. Way to do the right thing." I appreciate that, but I'm not sure if what I did – especially considering the way I did it – is worthy of congratulations. My words, I think, were nothing but reflexive. You wouldn't congratulate someone for shouting, "HOLY SHIT THERE'S A FIRE!" if they say a fire. I'm not sure how this is any different.

Anyway: someone runs off to get a guy from security. I dial 911 on my phone. EMERGENCY shows up on the screen. I realize that I've never done this before. I've never called 911. I start to feel a little bit of anxiety. It's been a long time since I learned 911 etiquette at SafetyTown, my home school district's program for kindergarteners were we learned necessary skills like learning how to properly cross a street (look left, right, and left again), how to identify logos that denote poisonous substances ("A skull and crossbones does not mean 'pirate juice,'" our police officer informed us), and how not to deal with strangers. (The last one left a pretty profound impact on me; it was an episode of Fat Albert made especially for these sorts of safety programs. It ended with a naive boy getting shot by some creep chasing him down through an abandoned warehouse, followed by a funeral scene. The eulogy in the scene was delivered by the one who always wore that pink stocking cap over his eyes that looked like a lampshade. I'm pretty sure I remember this correctly; the urge to stop writing this post to jump over to YouTube to see if it's up there is really strong.)

The conversation with 911 went something like this:

DISPATCH: Chicago 911 service. What is your emergency.

ME: I'm calling – a young woman here has collapsed. We're at – what's the address? – 1104

DISPATCH: Hold on. I'll transfer you to the fire department.

ME: Uh.

A scene pops in my head. A firetruck full of firefighters – complete with those big yellow jackets, red hats and a dalmatian – pulls up to the building. They storm it, hoses in hands. "Oh," they would say. "She fainted? We don't know much about dealing with stuff like that. We have this hose, I guess. You want we should use it on her?"

A new operator takes over. Things are pretty simple from this point on. More questions, most of which I don't know the answer to. I struggle with the number of the room we're in; I have to run up to the gigantic studio doors, which is a huge pain in the ass to try to open on your own, and pace the hallway looking for a room number. This takes all of forty-five seconds.

OPERATOR: How old is the woman?

ME: Buh!

OPERATOR: Make an estimate.

ME: Eighteen? Sure. Yeah.

Another student taps me on the shoulder. Actually, it might be one of the professors; I'm not sure if she's older than she looks or younger than she looks.

"She has a pre-existing condition," the woman said.

"What is it?"

She elaborates. "A pre-existing condition." In a less tense situation, I'd try to think of a more tactful way to ignore her; the best I can do now is to turn away from her as if nothing has happened.

The call ends. I let the guy from security know that they'll be there soon; that they want someone at the front door to lead them to the room. The professors move us to another room to complete the briefing for the rest of the day. Class goes on as usual; we try different roles on a set. For a half-hour I'm a lowly grip, helping our assistant director move equipment around. Then I'm an actor, playing a guy who's missing a hand. Time passes.

"Good work today, everyone," our professor says. "I was really impressed by your focus. We got our work done. No one tripped over any cables or burned their hands on the lights or – "

"And only one ambulance had to show up," I say. Some laugh uncomfortably. Some mutter "too soon." Some just laugh unbridledly. My professor, thankfully, is in the lattermost group.

The rest of the day goes on. I get an awesome Italian beef sandwich after a packed-to-the-brim bus ride. I  stand in the freezing cold wind while waiting for the El. I consider the sucky things about Chicago, but I also consider the awesome things – like Italian beef sandwiches. I stop by Jordan's place to work on homework, since my computer's in the shop; I learn that Columbia's canceled class for Wednesday. (They then canceled class the day after, which, unbeknownst to me, caused my weekend to begin after that Tuesday afternoon class.) We watch some stuff on the computer; we freak out when it begins thundering. I walk home in the midst of a blizzard. I consider taking a cab; I look to the left; three people are attempting to push a cab off of what appears to be the sidewalk; I reconsider taking a cab. I walk down the road to my place because there are no cars, not to mention that the snow's just as deep on the roads as it is the sidewalk. I get back to my apartment and put the heater on full blast.

Just before I fall asleep I realize I've forgotten something. I get up and walk to my bookshelf. I pick up my alarm clock. I turn it off. I fall back asleep.

So that was Tuesday, I guess.

Cold, Thundersnow, Credit

This post was written yesterday, January 31, around 6 PM.

I think I'm getting a cold. I've got that prickly uncomfortable feeling in the back of my thraot. I'm now going on my usual cold-offensive strategy: hitting up Zicam, lots of water, and very occasional shots of hot whisky.

We're supposed to have a gigantic snowstorm tomorrow. I'm supposed to have class tomorrow at 8:30 AM. Despite the frequency with which weather forecasters are tossing around the term thundersnow, I'm pretty sure we'll still have class tomorrow. (Another thing I'm hearing a lot: "What's thundersnow?" Exactly what it sounds like. Dummy.)

I've been thinking lately about how I react to past work of mine. It seem slike I take full repsonsibilty for any mistakes or flaws in projects, and yet I'm nowhere near as willing to take responsibility for awesome things. Make of that what you will. All I'll say for now is: duly noted, self.

Update: Class wasn't canceled – not technically. Columbia canceled all classes past 12:30, which, coincidentally, is when my 8:30 class ended. Class has been canceled for tomorrow – Thursday – but we still have yet to experience any thunder, as far as I'm aware.