If I Ever Leave This World Alive

Every once and awhile, a band comes along that just feels good. No matter how long you go without listening to any of their music, the second you turn it back on and hear the first few chords, you can't help but smile.

I'm experiencing that this very minute, and it's every bit as refreshing as a breath of spring air.

I first heard Flogging Molly my junior year of high school, I think. They played at Warped Tour in 2004, and it was there that I had the great pleasure to see them. Senior year of high school and freshman year of college saw them quickly becoming an obsession, and I still count them among my absolute favorites.

I also credit them, just a bit, for helping to get Jeff and me together (after the little Destiny bit - thanks for that, Kristina). In the summer of 2006, they released a CD/DVD called Whiskey on a Sunday, which Jeff and I went to see together. The documentary increased my appreciation for them tenfold. There was a period after its release that I listened to almost nothing else.

The word that comes to the front of my mind when thinking of FM is unique. There's not much about them that is duplicated throughout the music industry. They are a seven member band fronted by a 45 year old Irishman. Their sound is somewhere in the middle of traditional Irish music and punk rock, even though all they ever really set out to do was make great music, free of any label. They consistently use instruments people don't associate with punk - a tin whistle, a banjo, a mandolin, a fiddle, an accordion - but they still rock harder than the majority of their peers (don't believe me, try a concert). They began in 1997, playing every Monday night at Molly Malone's in Los Angeles for a number of years, and they still managed to break out of the bar band stigma.

They've released a live album, 3 studio albums, and the CD/DVD. The live album, Alive Behind the Green Door, was recorded at Molly Malone's in 1997. Their studio albums are Swagger (200o), Drunken Lullabies (2002), and Within a Mile of Home (2004). The documentary is completely worth it - it chronicles the amazing history of an amazing band.

I can't really say enough about them, because the music speaks for itself. Do yourself a favor and go listen.




Left to right: Bob Schmidt, Nathan Maxwell, Dennis Casey, Dave King, Bridget Regan, Matt Hensley (sadly, no longer with the band), George Schwindt

So Much Depends

As a student of literature and the English language, I am an avid fan of poetry. Through the trillions of literature courses I have to take, I am constantly being exposed to new things.

Today in class, we came to a poem that is both widely known and widely hated. It's a poem by William Carlos Williams, an American who wrote a lot during the '20s, '30s, and '40s. Williams is most often classified as a modernist and an imagist. He was more concerned with the arrangement of the words on the page and the picture that they presented than he was with elusive meaning. The words, to him, were less important than the way you put them together, and the way they were put together didn't necessarily tell you how to read them. He was out to make a truly American form of poetry, using the language in the same way an average American would do.

Back to the subject at hand - his most infamous poem. If you're at all familiar with his work, you'll have guessed it by now. If not, here it goes.

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

I've heard many different people lament over how ridiculous this poem is. Others say that this doesn't even qualify as poetry. And yet another group will praise it as the epitome of what Williams was trying to do - make something ordinary artistic.

I'm no expert - but I'm inclined to say he succeeded.

After all, Williams managed to change the way America looked at poetry. Knowing that, it's easy to see that so much depends upon that red wheelbarrow.

Honestly, Lady

What, is Ann Coulter still in the ninth grade?

At the Conservative Political Action Conference, Coulter made the following remark about John Edwards, Democratic presidential hopeful:

"I was going to have a few comments on the other Democratic presidential candidate John Edwards, but it turns out you have to go into rehab if you use the word 'faggot,' so I -- so kind of an impasse, can't really talk about Edwards."

When did juvenile name calling become an acceptable means of political commentary? And using the word faggot as a put-down in a serious political atmosphere? I'm not really one for political correctness, but stooping to insult someone by saying they're part of a specific minority? You wouldn't dare use "the n-word." Why is faggot ok?

Sadly, it doesn't stop there. After being criticized by prominent members of her own party (including candidates John McCain and Rudy Giuliani), Coulter's response?

"C'mon, it was a joke. I would never insult gays by suggesting that they are like John Edwards. That would be mean."

Great way to try and rectify a really dumb comment - make another one! Let's keep throwing teenage comebacks at him, just for kicks, rather than trying to deal with his policies or political views or campaign issues (which I thought was the job of a political commentator).

Honestly, lady, are you kidding me?

Coffee's Frothy Goodness

Why is it that drinking coffee in a coffee shop can instantly make one feel sophisticated, informed, and very sure of him or herself?

Nothing makes me feel as aware as drinking coffee does. Sitting in some quiet little coffee shop, serenely discussing the state of the world and the purpose of life with a dear friend does something for the soul that no other beverage can come close to imitating.

It's true, however, that coffee isn't all about inner tranquility. I'd chance to say that the majority of the time, coffee is the crutch that carries us through our days, keeping us from falling asleep in class or at work, making sure we keep every moment productive.

A lot of lovely things have been said about coffee. People over the ages have praised its taste, touted it as life's driving force, and sadly, even criticized it as a vile, bitter waste. Sure, there are plenty of ways to get caffeine (and I will take a moment here to apologize to my first love - Coke - for this horrible bout of infidelity), but why argue with the 71% of Americans who choose coffee?

What is it about this wonderful drink that has us all hooked? (Besides the caffeine, of course. But really, if we're going through the withdrawal headaches, how can we appreciate the beauty of this roasted drink?)

This luscious obsession can be traced back to 9th century Ethiopia, though this all-important word didn't enter the English language until 1598 - and it's been a constant presence since.

More and more these days, however, coffee has become a specialty, and the statistics are mind-boggling. It's a far cry from the basic roasted bean of yesteryear. Now we have to combine it with sugar, cinnamon, hazelnut, chocolate - or use espresso, steamed milk, foam, flavors, tall, short, low fat, nonfat, extra hot - well, you get the point. Personally a latte, shot of Irish cream, and dollop if whipped cream suit me just fine.

And so, having worked up a thorough craving for just that and having the sudden urge to save the world one coffee shop at a time, I'll leave you with the words of Algerian scholar Abd al-Qadir:

"No one can understand the truth until he drinks of coffee's frothy goodness."

Those Bothersome Life Lessons

The longer I'm in college, the more I realize that a true college education has very little to do with the material you learn in a classroom. Throughout the course of this, my second year, I've been in a class that has been the epitome of this statement. At time, I feel like this class takes this idea to the extreme in that it can show an almost blatant disregard for teaching the material and often becomes a series of mind games.

Interesting how I've chosen to personify the class in that action, instead of the teacher.

Any challenging course takes a lot of time and effort, but if learning the material is the main focus of the class, then the time and effort can be well spent and can pay off grandly. However, sometimes, learning is not the only obstacle. It can take a back seat to the other forms of education that are sometimes very unwillingly accepted.

It may seem so much more pleasant to do without those lessons, but like it or not, there are times when you don't get to choose.

Through organic chemistry, I have been forced - against my will - to learn how to work as part of a team; that helping others work their way up is more fulfilling than being alone at the top; sometimes you must deal with people you'd rather avoid; that people will defy reason and rationality (but that they'll also defy expectation, as well). I know now that understanding priority is essential, time management is a major asset, and determination (mixed with a dash of spite) can pull you out of a very deep hole. Friends that make it through the most stressful of times with you are great to have around when the world is a little lighter. Your enemies aren't always who you think they are. No one else can give you your self-worth. Nothing replaces really, really, really hard work. Finally being able to see the other side of the mountain makes the past struggle begin to fade.

And so maybe, when you're forced to learn those bothersome life lessons that you didn't realize you signed up for - and might not have chosen, if you'd known - you come out with a bit more than you paid for.

Perhaps I'm Just Losing It, Too

About a year ago this month, I read American poet Sylvia Plath's only novel The Bell Jar. I'd heard of it before, but I was really exposed to the story of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes through a Senior Seminar paper done by a girl who actually sat in front of me in chapel. Her paper was on Ted Hughes' poem "Daffodils", which is a reminiscent look at the early stages of Hughes' and Plath's marriage, in the days where they were simply struggling poets - not estranged lovers that crumbled apart piece by piece.

The book is a semi autobiographical look at Plath's life and struggles with mental illness. The novel is told through the eyes of protagonist Esther Greenwood, and it deals with time that she spent as a magazine intern in New York City, the development of her views on morality, writing, and reality, her first descent into madness, and her subsequent stay in a mental hospital.

The second I finished reading this book, I really wanted to flip it around and start again. It's a tragic story, really, especially viewed in light of Plath's eventual suicide, but her manner of storytelling makes you forget all that. It's quite a comic novel, as Esther's cynical and witty remarks have you seeing through her eyes. This trait - this high level of identification - also makes her "crack-up" seem completely rational and sensible. You see the world as she sees it - through the bell jar - and you forget that it's not supposed to look this way. Plath expertly lures you into believing that this is what reality looks like, since it's Esther's piece of "reality."

Really, it's hard to convey my love for this book. If you've never given it a look, I suggest you find a copy.

Since reading it, I've also stumbled across (read: was assigned in various literature courses - see, I really do learn things!) a few short stories that remind me of the feel of The Bell Jar, whether from content, style, or some combination of both. The first one I encountered was British writer Doris Lessing's "To Room Nineteen." It is the story Susan Rawlings, a woman who rents a hotel room in order to escape from the pressures and discontentment of her life as a wife, mother of four, and homemaker. She visits the room daily, and it destroys her relationships with her husband and children. She becomes absolutely dependent on the room, and eventually kills herself.

Nineteenth century American author Charlotte Perkins Gilman used her short story "The Yellow Wallpaper" as a way to fight the misguided ways that mentally ill women were treated in the nineteenth century. It is a first-person narrative drawn from Gilman's own fight with postpartum depression and her subjection to Weir Mitchell's "rest cure". The narrator is a woman who has been diagnosed with a form of hysteria (the blanket ailment for women with any sort of mental illness) and put on the rest cure. The lack of activity and human contact drives her to begin seeing patterns in the wallpaper. Eventually, her mind morphs this into a woman trapped by the pattern. At the end of the story, she has lost all rational thought and assumed the identity of the woman who has escaped the wallpaper. Through the duration of the story, the reader is given little hints at the woman's further deterioration - lapses in consciousness, verbal ironies, and the like.

Note: Although Gilman did overcome her postpartum depression (despite the rest cure), she, like Plath, ended her own life.

Each of these stories has had me completely entranced. I've loved every line of them, and I regretted the completion of each one.

So what exactly is it that fascinates me about these intimate looks into the breakdown of reality? I've begun to worry just a smidgen - I can't get enough literature about women going crazy (I believe I'm headed for Kate Chopin's The Awakening next). Perhaps it's just a testament to the skill of these writers, because every step in that journey away from reality seems perfectly innocuous and reasonable. The wit and candidness of The Bell Jar, the social commentary and coherently irrational thought of "To Room Nineteen," and the beautiful use of imagery and foreshadowing in "The Yellow Wallpaper" show that these "cracked" women have the ability to be amazing, amazing writers.

But on the other hand, perhaps I'm just losing it, too.