Chapter LXXIV: Colorburn

When I was young and stupid (not so long ago), I scoffed at my peers who professed to be avid Photographers, with a capital 'P.' Yeah, whatever, I would silently snort. You're just another kid who thinks he's artistic, but is too lazy to learn how to draw.

In my naive mind, photography was a total cop-out. You just stand there and push a button, and it's over in less than a second. To call photography an art would be an insult to the painters and sculptors who labor for weeks or months over their one-of-a-kind masterpieces.

In fact, I had a very 19th century attitude about art in general. I decried Abstract Expressionism as a cultural tumor (writing an essay to that effect in 11th grade), glorified photorealism (except, ironically, in photographs), and more or less thought that fine art should be time-consuming and unattainable without years of intensive training. Delacroix and Titian were my heroes, Pollack my nemisis, and Ansel Adams was just boring.

But after acquiring a cheap digital camera, and reading a couple books on the subject, I realized that photography is hardly quick and easy, and opening the shutter is only the conclusion of a laborious decision-making process. At the same time, it is also a very immediate experience, choosing which particular second (or 36th of a second) to capture. It this demanding synthesis of planning and spontaneity that makes photography an art form.

And so, in the interest of pushing myself to explore the exciting realm of digital photography, I have started a new photoblog. It is a collaborative effort, and the premise is fairly simple. Every day, we each post one photo to the blog. The catch is, there won't be a traditional caption beneath each image. Instead, we will include some salient bit of the discussion we had about that photograph.

The idea is that I will be instilled with a sense of obligation to keep snapping away and improve as a student of photography*--so as to not let down my coblogger and also to provide a fruitful experience for the random people who stop by.

It is called COLORBURN*. Until I get back to school and my camera, we're both just working through some photos we have piled up on our hard drives, which, in my case, are mostly rather static still-lifes. That will change, rest assured. Keep in mind though, that it will be a daily exercise, so I only expect to produce high resolution and well-composed--but not necessarily stunning--images.

I will, of course, still be posting the occasional riveting observation on the state of the universe here, in this fine venue.

*I would not presume to call myself a photographer.
*Colorburn is a reference to one of the blending modes in Photoshop. I originally reserved the URL as a place to dump art (instead of embedding it into my blog posts) but I never got around to it.

Chapter LXXIII: So to Speak

Blogging...is such an ugly word. It sounds like a contraction of blah and logging, as if it were some kind of unexciting environmental destruction. It occurred to me while I was flipping through the course catalog that a much more respectable term would be "Creative Nonfiction," defined as the inclusion of literary elements in mostly nonfiction writing.

I think I satisfy that definition. Was it not a glorious use of simile when I likened specks of cereal dust in my milk to the frozen bodies floating aimlessly about in Titanic? Was it not a sublime example of extended metaphor when I framed the experience of drinking a glass of juice as a safari? Of course it was! So if I ever fill out a scholarship application, I will confidently write "Creative Nonfiction" in the extracurricular interests section, instead of blah-gging.

But why stop there? Poker sounds seedy also. How about "Applied Statistics?" Yes, that has a nice ring. Going to the gym can be "Applied Kinesiology," or--even better--"Kinesiology Practicum" (Latin = smart, and deserving of scholarships). I don't steal things, I enjoy "Random Acquisition." I don't spend all day on the Internet downloading porn, but I am interested in "Wide-Area Networks Insofar As They Facilitate The Proliferation Of Human Anatomical Imagery."

After all, I'm not lying--just rephrasing things so that they sound nicer. I suppose the best way to describe it would be...creative nonfiction.

Chapter LXXII: Foot the Bill

Ever since Kill Bill Vol. I first flickered before my eyes three years ago, something about the movie has niggled me, like an unscratchable itch. Actually, it wasn't so much the thing itself, which, though inexplicable, is not directly annoying. What bothers me is that whenever I bring up this particular aspect of the film, no one knows what the fuck I'm talking about.

I am referring, of course, to the unaccountably large role that feet play in the cinematography of Kill Bill Volume I. One can almost call it a foot fetish. It's completely obvious to me, and I don't know why I'm the only person who seems to notice it. To make my case once and for all, I have taken the relevant screen captures from the DVD rip. For your consideration:


Besides Uma Thurman's labored breathing, the first sounds in the movie are Bill's footsteps, and the first visual (after Uma Thurman's bloody face) is a close-up of his shoes. All told, the footsteps and the shoes last 38 seconds.

Minutes later (14.3 to be precise), we have a similar segment, but this time of the sherriff's shoes as he ambulates the bloody chapel. It is clearly meant recall the earlier scene, and also features the distinctive footstep sound.


Here, Elle Driver strolls through the hospital whistling that now infamous tune. This segment lasts for 11 seconds.




"Wiggle your big toe." In this scene, not only are feet important visually, but also central to the plot. As you know, it is some time before Uma succeeds in her endeavor.




Another shot from the same scene.








The seventeen year old O-ren Ishii. The scene begins with this shot of her boots and slowly moves up her body.






Here, we have a few seconds of Oren's bare feet quickly traversing the top of the Council table before she decapitates Boss Tanaka. The segment actually shows her feet from a number of angles, of which this represents but one.

An interesting view of Uma as she walks across the...I forget the name of the place. House of Blue Something-or-Other. For some reason 'Pancakes' come to mind. But blue pancakes would be gross.


Oren takes 19 seconds to remove her shoes.






Obviously, there are countless more shots in the movie where feet are visible, what with all the kicking and running about. The point though, is that in Kill Bill Volume I, images of feet are used for cinematographic effect more often than in most movies. That is to say, they are notable in themselves and not just byproducts of the action.

Before you accuse me of combing the movie looking for feet, I only included here segments that immediately leapt out the first time I saw it. In all of them, feet are the dominant visual element for a significant amount of time, and depicted in an artistic manner. As I expressed earlier, I have no idea why Mr. Tarantino chose to feature feet so prominently, but it seems clear to me that he did. OR, I'm psychotic.

I apologize for the stupid title.

Full Disclosure: Site Statistics.

Chapter LXXI: A Toast to Science

Image of the Day: A Study of the Effects of Alcohol Consumption on the Fine Motor Skills of a 130# Male (click to Enlarge)


Research Objectives: To observe (1) how the volume of alcohol consumed affects fine motor coordination and (2) how the passage of time affects the effect of the volume of alcohol consumed on fine motor coordination.

Research Methodology: (1) and (2) above are determined by the relative legibility of the subject's handwriting.

A baseline legibility is established before the subject has consumed any alcohol (first row), at which point a timer is started. At time intervals roughly increasing by factors of two (6 minutes, 14 minutes, 30 minutes), 1 shot of vodka is consumed (each containing approximately 1.2 oz of alcohol), and a handwriting sample is taken, until 1 hour has elapsed.

At that point, no further alcohol is consumed and handwriting samples are taken about every 10 minutes.

Conclusions: Against all rational expectations, it appears alcohol consumption has a marked effect on fine motor skills. The subject's legibility seems to degrade exponentially as time progresses.

Interestingly, it appears that the penmanship progressively deteriorated inward from the end of the alphabet. It is unknown whether this is due to the relative paucity of the latter letters in everyday experience, or simply because the subject's concentration was exhausted by the time he got to them.

Recommendations: Don't drink and write (or drive).

Peer Review: The study attempted to simultaneously track two independent variables (volume of alcohol consumed, and time) rendering the relative weight of each indeterminable. Furthermore, no mechanism has been formulated to quantify the dependent variable--legibility--and so the claim that it deteriorated exponentially is invalid. The study used an absurdly small sample population of one person, who also happened to be the researcher. Thus, double-blind procedure was not followed (or even single-blind procedure), running the risk of confirmation bias. Indeed, it appears this exercise was nothing more than a dumb excuse to become intoxicated, albeit slightly less dumb than previous ones.

Chapter LXX: Snakes on a What?

Image of the Day: Ticket Stub
Despite what my ticket stub would have you believe, I did not watch Snakes on a Plane last night. I almost did. After the first fifteen minutes, though, it was pretty obvious where the setup was heading. It was the worn and weary (some would say tried and true) B-Movie paradigm: an assortment of one-dimensional characters crowded into a confined space, ripe to be killed off one at a time in ridiculously gruesome ways.

Well, Deep Blue Sea came out years ago, and also featured slimy carnivores devouring an arrogant British businessman and a dumb blonde chick. I had also already seen Anaconda, in which slimy carnivores--snakes, no less--devour (you guessed it) an arrogant British businessman* and a dumb blonde*, among others. In all three of these cinematic abortions, the obese black comic relief* always makes it out alive. Speaking of abortion, [update: the rest of this sentence has been removed].

Since I already knew what was going to happen, and nothing unique appeared forthcoming, we decided to forgo what Rolling Stone describes as:

...a murky stew of shock effects repeated so often that the suspense quickly droops along with your eyelids. It's not so bad that it's good. It's so bland that it's boring. Not even worth a hissss.

A hop and a skip away in the next theater, Step Up was about to begin. It stars Channing Tatum (Or is it Tatum Channing? I can never remember) and Jenna Dewan. To be sure, Step Up is as formulaic as Snakes on a Plane. The movie about a wealthy dance student teaching and falling in love with his/her low-income partner has been done innumerably: The Cutting Edge, Strictly Ballroom, Center Stage, Save the Last Dance, Take the Lead, et al.

It does, however, redeem itself by veering away from the most overused conflict arcs. We are spared the snobby parent who tries to squash the budding relationship, the cliché love triangle drama, and the anorexia subplot. Step Up contains a truly unexpected sad moment and grips of impressive dancing, making it enjoyable, dare I say rewatchable. It also has a kickass soundtrack, though I'm not sure if it "defines a generation," as the trailers claim.

By far, the best movie I saw this weekend was the DVD of Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang. Memorable Quote:
Gay Perry: Look up 'idiot' in the dictionary. You know what you'll find?
Harry: A picture of me?
Gay Perry: No! The definition of 'idiot,' which you FUCKING ARE!

*Not to imply that all British businessmen are arrogant, just the ones who are made that way so no one is sad when they are eaten by giant snakes.
*Kenan Thompson, LL Cool J, and Ice Tea, respectively. Not to imply that all black people are obese, just the ones who make it out alive in movies about giant snakes.
*Not to imply that all blonde people are dumb. All blondes are dumb.

Chapter LXIX: The End of the Beginning

A year ago today, I posted the first chapter of this blog. Tempus fugit indeed.

Happy Birthday, Armless Boy.

Image of the Day: Birthday Cake (Found)












Let the festivities begin (this has to be the dumbest excuse to get drunk that I've ever thought of). Cheers!

Chapter LXVIII: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I, being poor, have only my dreams. Dreams aren't legal tender though, so until I make millions of dollars selling my brilliant invention, I am forced go with the cheapest option whenever I need a haircut I can't do myself.

That invariably means some local barber in a rundown shopping center. The flooring is usually yellowed linoleum, and there will be a selection of utterly vapid magazines to peruse, like the March 1993 issue of American Boating. On the back wall is a boy's hairstyle chart that appears to be from the 1950's and show side profiles of fresh-faced white kids with the kinds of haircut that evoke baseball and apple pie.

Half of the scissor happy barbers on duty are ex-Marines whose expertise consists of the generic "boy's short." Alternatively, you might get the Vietnamese lady who feels compelled to chop off your bangs in a straight line across your forehead, no matter what you tell her.

In San Luis Obispo, this place is called University Barbershop, and I went there last week for my first haircut in 4 months. Unexpectedly, it was probably one of the better haircuts I've ever gotten, although I would have liked to keep a tad more on the sides. While my head was being pruned, it occurred to me that barbers have, for some unknown reason, often been portrayed as devious tricksters in literature and the arts.

For example, the oldest story involving haircuts is the tale of Samson and DELILAH and she was definitely tricky, using her feminine wiles to pry out the secret to Samson's strength. To be fair, he was an idiot and didn't make it especially difficult. The first time she asks, he tells her he will lose his strength if she ties him to his bed with 7 bowstrings. Delilah then proceeds to actually do this, so why he would tell her the truth the second time she asks is beyond me.

Maybe something was lost in the translation for Hebrew to Greek? Like, they were actually just flirting the first time she asked, and being tied to the bed was a kinky fantasy Samson wanted to act out.

Fast forward to the 1800's to THE BARBER OF SEVILLE, Rossini's famous opera. In it, the Count Almamiva wants to marry Rosina, but she is locked up by Doctor Bartolo, who wants to marry her himself, so the Count gets his trusty barber, Figaro, to devise a convoluted plan for them to meet. It is unclear why the Count approaches Figaro, unless there is a stereotype of clever barbers.

Continuing on the theme of singing barbers, we find SWEENEY TODD: THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET, the 1979 Broadway musical. Sweeney Todd, a deranged barber, slits the throats of his customers with a straight razor. His specially designed barber's chair then slides the bodies through the floor to the bakery shop of his neighbor, who cooks the corpses into meat pies. That's pretty devious.

And finally there's BARBERSHOP, which is also about barbers. I haven't actually seen the movie and I'm tired so I'll stop typing now.

[Update] The Inner Critic: Damn, this was a lame post, even for you. Seriously, "BARBERSHOP, which is also about barbers..." Thanks for clearing that up, Jerry. All this time, I thought that a movie titled BARBERSHOP must be about evil gay hamsters who terrorize Chicago, biting off people's scrotums and then clipping their fingernails, all in one swift move. Your stupid discourse about barbers in the arts imploded without reaching anything that resembles a point (or even the ugly cousin of a point), and your "poem" is just a poorly written sentence chopped into seven lines. No wonder you only got one page hit yesterday. Two thumbs down.

Chapter LXVII: Playlistism

From urbandictionary.com:

PLAYLISTISM - n. Discrimination based not on race, gender, or religion, but rather on a disturbingly horrible iTunes music library discovered through a school or job network. Often requires awkward explanation of why you have "that song."

Mike accused me of playlistism when I questioned his collection of Color Me Badd b-sides.

Personally, I've never understood why music is such a big deal, so I was never able to judge people based on it. I enjoy music too, but only as a form of temporary diversion, not in any sort of philosophical way. Call me shallow, but if a song is catchy, I'll listen to it; meaningful lyrics are a plus, but ultimately irrelevant if I can't stand the tune. Also, I have no compunction against removing a single song from the "context" of its album and playing it ad nauseaum, all by itself. I guess I can understand some people's intense feelings about music if I think about it in terms of my own emotional investment in graphic art.

But really, I'm more likely to look down on you based on the newspaper you subscribe to. Los Angeles Times? How parochial. Wallstreet Journal? Stop pretending you're smart. Christian Science Monitor? ...Stay the fuck away from me.

I am often surprised by a person's musical tastes when they seem incongruous with other aspects of his personality. Like my former roommate, a Christian fundamentalist , Chinese EE major, who always has his speakers blaring what I affectionately call "the black people music." He says it's because he grew up in the "bad part" of the Bay Area. Whatever, Quinn.

Or when you're browsing Facebook, and you come across someone you knew in highschool--honors kid, SAT scores through the roof, always very sensible; and the first two bands in his Favorite Music are Killswitch Engage and Silverchair. Sheesh. Maybe I'm deluding myself in thinking that there is any connection between what people listen to and other things they do.

Anyways, I have embedded a Stickam player in my sidebar and loaded it with a more or less random selection of songs that were readily available on my hard drive. Wonderfully, the player also displays photos, so the Flickr photostream has been phased out, though the transition has not been completed yet (Stickam requires jpegs). Stickam also supports a bunch of other stuff I'm not using, so many of the buttons will be fruitless.

Chapter LXVI: Self-Indulgence

"Everywhere I see bliss, from which I am irrevocably excluded," lamented Frankenstein's monster, but he's got nothing on me. I've had a terrible week--well, more like a terrible Monday/Tuesday. A total of five essay swere due, on disparate topics: the Rwandan genocide, the Argentine currency crisis, the economics of cocaine in Bolivia, Dubliners by James Joyce, and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Not exactly lots of research synergies. Also, I had two Midterms and a grueling ARCE Final which was from 7-9 at night.

It was nucking futs...I didn't have time to sleep, shower, or go to the gym at all. I also didn't eat anything on Monday, but on Tuesday I bought 15.4 oz of plain M&Ms and nibbled on them all day. A pound of chocolate probably wasn't a good idea in my sleepless, unwashed state, but I'm sure you'll forgive me for not being able to think straight.

BUT! Everything went swimmingly. I sweated out five kickass essays and aced the tests (more or less), and it's clear sailing for here on out. Really, it's a wonderful feeling.

On Sunday, I told myself that if I was able to pull it off I would have to reward myself somehow... Actually, I knew exactly how I would reward myself. It's a little embarrassing, but I'm addicted to t-shirts. Not clothes in general, just tees. I used to buy copious amounts of them, but not so much anymore. Except today. In recognition of my accomplishment this week, I bought some t-shirts online. Close-ups of the designs are below. You can test your Googling skillz by trying to find the sites (4 in all) where I got them.

Chapter LXV: What's Up?

It's funny how in America, greetings and their responses have become so automatic that they're effectively meaningless. How many times have you overheard (or participated in) the following ubiquitous exchange?

A: What's up?
B: Nothin' much, you?
A: Nothin' much.

or its cousin...

A: How's it going?
B: Not bad, you?
A: Not bad.

If extra-terrestrial archeologists ever tried to decipher English, they would think 'nothing much' is another term for the sky. That said, I overhead a strange variation on my way to class today. Two guys were walking briskly in opposite directions, and had the following conversation as they passed one other:

A: What's up?
B: Not bad, you?
A: Nothin' much.

Me (silently): Um, what the fuck?

For the rest of my walk to class, I tried to determine who had been stupider, A or B. Clearly, B's response to A was non sequitur. In my Stupidity Rating System (SRS), that's worth 1 Stupid Point (SP). A also gave a non sequitur response though, since B's 'you?' actually referred to the unspoken question of 'How's it going?' Of course, it must be accounted for that A's response would have been appropriate had it not been for B's mistake.

Therefore, I only allotted 0.5 SPs to A and concluded that B was the stupider of the two (1 SP to 0.5 SPs).

When I explained this reasoning to my lab partner, she concurred that A's non sequitur response was less egregious than B's. However, she argued that A should have recognized that B screwed up, and called him on it; that A did not do so is certainly worth an additional 1 SP.

A, she asseverated, was in fact stupider than B by a score of 1.5 SPs to 1 SP. I commended her insight and we proceeded to do the lab.

Perhaps you have already realized the flaw in our logic. For me, the epiphany didn't occur until I was on the elliptical machine at the gym, eyes closed and mp3s blaring. The fact is, if A had realized B's mistake and acknowledged it, A's own illogical response would never have occurred. It is unfair to penalize A both for not recognizing B's slip-up and also for acting on that incognizance, since the second blunder is an 'error carried forward' of the first.

Recalculating the Stupid Points, we have B at 1 SP for his non sequitur response, and A at 1 SP for not catching it. In the final analysis, then, A and B are equally stupid (1 SP to 1 SP).

Chapter LXIV: UnAmerican

Image of the Day: Intercepted by the Secret Service (Illustrator)




















You are thinking that I should retitle my blog "Crap I Made In Five Minutes Using Adobe Illustrator." But you see, that would be inaccurate...some of this stuff only took four minutes.

Not to worry though, me thinks the Illustrator fad will only last until I exhaust my supply of art to digitize. The original medium of today's chef d'oevre was, as you might have guessed, crayon on 8.5x11 paper, produced three years ago as a joke. It was fun recreating all the nuances of 1st grader handwriting.

Along the anti-Bush vein, I watched a flash music video today, titled (Didn't Know I Was) UnAmerican, by Ian Rhett. It's pretty cool, yadda yadda yadda*, you should watch it.

Actually, labeling it as "anti-Bush" is misleading. It's more...pro-world, if that makes sense. I think that's why it was more resonant--for me--than two hours of Fahrenheit 9/11.

I had earphones on and had been doing my online French listening exercises, which are ever so fun. Today, the lady on the tape/mp3 sang "Frère Jacques," known to les américains as "Are You Sleeping?" This was fine and dandy, except it was sung at an abnormally slow tempo (probably to aid comprehension) and with zero accompaniment, such that it passed from being a cute lullaby to actually sounding hypnotic and sinister.

Tangentially related: a flash music video I saw on Larry King Live last year, about corporate irresponsibility/outsourcing: BigBoxMart. This one starts playing right when you click the link. It's set to the tune of "Oh Susanna" and quite catchy (though depressing).

*Each yadda represents 1.53 sentences of effusive praise.

Chapter LXIII: Technicolor Bedset

Image of the Day: My New Sheets and Pillow Case

The most annoying feeling in the universe is when the bedsheets slide around and crumple up and maybe even come off of the bed in the middle of the night.

I suffered through this for a whole year, and blame it for the C- I got in English 134. The stupid sheet shifting made me sleep fitfully and I didn't wake up in time to turn in an essay that was 15% of my grade. It was a kick-ass essay too, about people starving to death in the snow.

After that, I disposed of the sheets altogether, and slept directly on the state provided mattress. This was reasonably comfortable, until I threw up all over the bed one night, and it always smelled just a little bit funny after that, in spite of (or was it because of?) all the Febreeze I sprayed.

Anyway, I learnt about a miraculous new product, utterly simple in its conception, but at the same time a consummate improvement over existing technologies. I thought to myself, only NASA could have thought of something so clever, these must be a spin-off of space program--like velcro and duct tape.

They are called "fitted" bedsheets, and are just like normal bedsheets, except that they have a band of high-quality elastic running around the edge, so once you snap it onto your bed, it stays tight and never ever comes off!

I started drooling immediately upon hearing of this gift from Prometheus and dashed to Target so as to procure some immediately, before they were all snatched up. There were aisles upon aisles of bedding to be perused, and I went up and down them all, muttering to myself. We wants them, we wants our precioussss...

To my dismay, although Target had 20 choices for twin-sized unfitted sheets, and 10 choices for fitted sheets, queen sized, there was only ONE twin-sized fitted, and they were HIDEOUS. But I guess you already know that, since the picture is at the top of the post. Seriously, they almost look radioactive. It goes to show what mindset I was in that I got them anyway. At least they came with a couple pillow cases.

According to the packaging, these are "designer" sheets, sold exclusively at Target. I guess "designer" is the new word for "ugly." But whatever, they're fitted and they don't slide and it's 4:36 AM. Nighty!

Chapter LXII: An Apparatus for the Systematic Conversion of Puppies into Nuclear Missiles

Image of the Day: Orthographic Projection (Illustrator)

DIAGRAM KEY:
1. Stage I: Loading of raw materials (frisky beagle pups)
2. Stage II: Separation of components (viewer discretion advised)
3. Stage III: Assemblage (see fig. 926.53)
4. Stage IV: Distribution of final product (nuclear missiles)
5. Industrial byproduct (highly carcinogenic)
6. Post-Modern roof ornaments (César Pelli, circa 1985)

Chapter LXI: Auld Lang Syne

Image of the Day: Rwanda
Doo deeeee dee dee dee deee do dee, DOO DOO DEEE DOO DEE DEE DOOO... my cell phone chirps as I dig through my backpack, frantically searching for it and knocking a pencil off my desk in the process. It clatters noisily to the floor and rolls away.

Five seconds earlier...

On the TV screen, a dirt road is covered with mangled, human corpses. Flies are everywhere, and the narrator's voice fades out as the camera pans over the bodies and then shakily zooms in on the naked form of one infant boy. His arms and one leg have been hacked off and only bloody stumps remain. His genitals are missing as well.

Rwanda.

The silence in the room is palpable. You could cut it with a machete.

And then, out of nowhere, a noise--unexpected, tinny, and shockingly inappropriate. Auld Lang Syne. My phone is ringing. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

If this happened yesterday, during a lecture, it would have been merely annoying and a little bit rude. I would have turned it off quickly, with an apologetic glance to the professor.

But today, TODAY, during the Rwanda documentary, and at that very instant, right after the footage of the tortured children, and while it is utterly silent in the room, when everyone is leaning forward in their seats blown away by the scale of the tragedy, is the WORST moment for my phone to start blaring Auld Lang Syne. Only my grandfather's funeral could possibly have been more inopportune.

To make things worse, I can't find the damn thing! My backpack has literally pockets within pockets within pockets, each of which has an almost equal chance of containing my phone. The lights have been dimmed, just enough to make it impossible to see into my backpack, and the ascending ringtone means I can't use the volume of the sound to tell if I'm opening the right pockets. I have only my groping fingers to rely on. It is still the only sound in the room, still getting louder, until it sounds like a fucking New Years' Eve party in my backpack. On the screen, bereaved mothers are sobbing over the bodies of their children, killed in their classrooms while the teacher was forced to watch.

I can feel Professor Arceneaux's glare, even though he is behind me. My classmates keep their eyes carefully fixed on the screen, pretending I don't exist, not wanting to associate themselves in any way with the insensitive asshole who would let his phone go off at a moment like this, and with such an unfortunate ringtone. The ghosts of murdered Rwandan children fill the darkened room, and they stare at me, silently asking why I am desecrating their memory. I still can't find it.

In desperation I put the backpack back on the floor and stomp on it, hoping to mash a button, anything to stop the infernal noise. I'm not sure if it works, or my voicemail kicks in, but it finally ends.

I sink back into my seat, red with shame--silently apologizing to the universe.