hugs

'cuz it's mah berfday.

[ORwoo-hoosDER]
brian

Yeah, I've Scene That

Biola has some really neat student-organized activities, especially when it comes to music. Tonight was the kickoff of "the eddy," a concert held every Thursday on campus.

The eddy books bands you know and bands you don't, but all them are decent. It makes for an evening of good (free) entertainment, and on a Thursday too. I still get to have my weekends to do whatever I want.

While the music is enjoyable, and the admission free, I would still like to air a grievance.

Since the eddy plays host to indie, emo, and other bands in the same vein, these concerts draw a certain type of crowd. They stand in front of the stage, and really just stand there. No moving—they just stand. They're messy-haired, pink-shirted, tight-pantsed, sullen-faced, angst-filled 20-somethings who don't like you.

That's right: most of the audience is "scene." What is "scene," you ask? "Scene" means they know something you don't, and they're happy about it.

Yes, I'm generalizing. Not everyone who has refined musical or cinematic tastes is an ass-butt.

But let's be honest: a lot of scene people think they're better than "the crowd." I have had the tenacity to ask sceners (as I like to call them) for music recommendations, and 9 of the 10 times it has gone something like this might:

Brian: Hey, Trey.
Trey: Hey.
Brian: Are you doing all right? You look down.
Trey: I'm all right. But not too all right, just all right enough to keep myself from affecting you in any meaningful way.
Brian: Oh, that's good to hear… uh… hey, I was wondering…
Trey: ?
Brian: Could you, you know, recommend a few bands to me?
Trey: You want me to recommend some groups?
Brian: Yeah. See, I'm trying to expand my music horizons.
Trey: Cool. Have you heard of [geographic region + Greek god]?
Brian: No.
Trey: Oh. How about [Weather Condition + Day of Week]?
Brian: Nuh-uh.
Trey: How about [Adverb + Random Number]?
Brian: Wait! Are they the ones who play "Send Me Down?"
Trey: No, that's [Synonymous Adverb + Random Number*2].
Brian. Oh. I've heard of them.
Trey: Well, yeah. They're mainstream.
Brian: So can you just recommend a band I might like?
Trey: Yeah, pick up the Summer Winds LP from [fourth band you've never heard of].
Brian: Okaaaaaay. Thanks.

That's all well and good. I'm music illiterate, and I know it. Why else would I ask for recommendations? The hold-up is that, instead of recommending something I could probably get my hands on, I'm directed towards an LP that is almost impossible to acquire. Why? Because nobody but the scene people know about the group.

I have the sneaking suspicion that he does this to mock me.

Well, I have prepared a retaliation tool. The next time I go to an eddy, and someone starts talking about how they like Cinder better than the band that's playing, I'll do this:

Brian: Cinder? Yeah, they're okay.
Trey: You've heard of Cinder?
Brian: Yeah. Well, I was trying to find something like Death by Desire that would appeal to my mainstream friends.
Trey: Cinder's not mainstream.
Brian: Compared to Death by Desire, they are.
Trey: I've never heard of Death by Desire.
Brian: Really? Oh, wow. How about Grassland Apollo?
Trey: No…
Brian: Cloud Wednesday?
Trey: [bemused look]
Brian: The When Sisters?
Trey: Who?
Brian: Wow. Have you at least heard of Fide?
Trey: Uh…
Brian: You haven't heard of Fide? [look at watch] Well, I should probably be going…

And then I leave.

Two can play this game. All I have to do is make up convincing band names to win.

[hey, check out the new Sober Future LP]
brian

Space Filler

I have loads of embarrassing stories. They range from unwittingly yelling at a deaf person to being too—how to put this—exposed in public, and everything in between. They're always accidental, and they're always awkward.

And that's what makes them funny.

The story I am about to tell happened during my Freshman year at Biola University. It happened in front of a dorm, and it happened because of a girl. That's all the background you need.

To protect her identity, we'll call this girl "Berry." I chose "Berry" because nobody names their daughter "Berry;" thus you can't confuse her with the Berry you know. Anyway, Berry was a member of my first group of friends. I was trying to impress her because I thought she was cute. I wanted her to think that I was the smartest, funniest, best-dressed, and most amazing person around. Yet while I gave my opinions, cracked my jokes, and wore my clothes, she still didn't seem to notice me.

Something was missing from my pitch. I strained my mind and thought about what I might be lacking. I checked and re-checked my work, only to be continually impressed with how I looked. Eventually I had to put the question missing aside because I just couldn't come up with an answer.

But it was always in the back of my mind, just waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

One night, Berry, my other friends and I all watched The Matrix in Sigma Chi Dorm's lobby. Neo finished blowing Agent Smith up, and we needed a reason to keep avoiding homework. It was late and all the stores were closed, so we decided to kill some time by talking outside.

Now after watching a movie like The Matrix, every male feels just a little bit more powerful than he did two hours before. He goes through an internal process, and it goes something like this:

-1. Assume that everyone around you is an enemy.
-2. Envision how you will take them all down, doing as many flips and throws as possible.
-3. Imagine some incredibly complex way of getting away from an opponent. There are extra points for you if it involves running up or across a wall.
-4. The final step is a rationalization process, where you call up every cool physical feat you've ever performed to try and justify how your fantasy is "legitimately possible."

I promise you, every guy goes through this process when he sees an action film. It's guaranteed. But I digress.

Back to the story: one of my friends was currently in phase four, telling everyone about his black belt in Tae Kwan Do. One girl voice how admiration while she ever-so-gently touched his arm. He was prepared for this and flexing before she made contact. The girl oohed and giggled as she felt his muscles, and that's when it hit me.

This is what I had lacked—cool guys aren't just funny, witty, and well-dressed. No. They need something more.

Cool guys need wicked physical skills!

It was so simple. Why hadn't I seen it before? I must have been too busy looking good in my Old Navy cargo pants to notice. But now I had noticed. All I needed was the opportunity.

I didn't have to wait long, because I was still in phase three. Thus my eyes were peeled for any cool geography which would allow for an impressive physical feat. And as my focus drifted around the outside of the dorm, it rested upon my answer: a bench next to a wall with about ten feet of clearance on each side.

In my mind, I saw it: my opportunity to outdo a black belt and win the affection of Berry forever. All I had to do was run across the wall over the bench.

I rushed through phase four, only saying to myself, "Brian, you can do this." I steeled myself to the task, crossed myself for good luck, and passed the point of no return.

I got everyone's attention by saying, "I'm gonna run over that bench on the wall."

The black belt looked at me and said, "You can't do that,."

And I said, "Oh yeah? Watch me."

I started my run. I jumped up onto the wall. My feet made contact. Right step, left step, right step. Here I realized that I was in the middle of my arc, and that I had made it so far without losing any inertia. I was going to make it. I was really going to make it! Berry was mine.

And then gravity reminded me that running up walls takes a lot of lower body strength.

My feet slid out from underneath me, and I went from the peak of my arc to my face in the concrete in a mere tenth of a second. My friends all gasped, mortified.

I got up quickly, brushed the dust off my pants and wiped the blood off of my lip.

"Holy crap, are you all right?" the black belt asked.

"I'm fine, fine, everything's cool," I replied, trying to play off the fact that I had just gone face-first into the concrete. "I like doing that. I call it concrete diving," I said, trying quickly to dig myself out of the hole I was already in. "It's just so much fun."

Nobody believed me, probably on account of the blood on my lips and the new hole in my Old Navy cargo pants. I realized that I was in over my head.

I looked at Berry, then at the black belt guy, and then back to Berry. "So, I'll catch you guys later, then," I said, and walked off into the night.

Nothing ever really developed with Berry,

But I did learn, conclusively, that I'm an idiot.

[new facts, every day]
brian!