<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093</id><updated>2011-07-30T23:10:54.612-05:00</updated><title type='text'>To Be Determined...</title><subtitle type='html'>I've got soul but I'm not a soldier</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>16</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-5956669378649295946</id><published>2010-05-03T21:19:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2010-05-03T21:27:47.883-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Pure Genius (The Sequel)</title><content type='html'>&lt;object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-156db3404940bd75" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/get_player"&gt;&lt;param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"&gt;&lt;param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;param name="flashvars" value="flvurl=http://v5.nonxt8.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D156db3404940bd75%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1329987888%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D32803A155270F8653DAA796C2EE9B326C8BC50AE.1B28F72EB869111C090CF5E681440941CAC988B%26key%3Dck1&amp;amp;iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3D156db3404940bd75%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DmsdL4gG-DGnLP6dGoVHZsnhPOXk&amp;amp;autoplay=0&amp;amp;ps=blogger"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/get_player" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"width="320" height="266" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"flashvars="flvurl=http://v5.nonxt8.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D156db3404940bd75%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1329987888%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D32803A155270F8653DAA796C2EE9B326C8BC50AE.1B28F72EB869111C090CF5E681440941CAC988B%26key%3Dck1&amp;iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3D156db3404940bd75%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DmsdL4gG-DGnLP6dGoVHZsnhPOXk&amp;autoplay=0&amp;ps=blogger"allowFullScreen="true" /&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-5956669378649295946?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/5956669378649295946/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=5956669378649295946' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/5956669378649295946'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/5956669378649295946'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2010/05/pure-genius-sequel.html' title='Pure Genius (The Sequel)'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-7423349801690340573</id><published>2009-05-22T09:04:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-22T09:52:44.427-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Alaska</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;It's not that she wasn't crazy. Because she was. You have no idea how crazy she was. I mean, this was the girl that told everyone she was Italian even though she was adopted (her only reasoning for this was that her adoptive father was Italian and the transitive property of adoption made her an instant Italian). It's that her acting skills outweighed her craziness for a short time. It's that we were fooled. Or rather, &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;I&lt;/span&gt; was fooled. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Who knew the catalyst for everything that happened next would look like this:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/Shayjp9qObI/AAAAAAAAAEw/FeKpWeR_Ns4/s1600-h/moose.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 284px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/Shayjp9qObI/AAAAAAAAAEw/FeKpWeR_Ns4/s320/moose.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338650733923940786" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;Let me back up.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It all started one winter when I was either a) seriously lacking basic assessment skills like "how to determine if a girl is crazy" and "you should probably leave this one alone" or b) a complete idiot. The smart money is on b. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I began dating this girl who, at the time, seemed like the coolest girl ever created. She was laid back, got along with my friends and family, had the same general interests as me, and was generally fun to be around. Things got off to a great start. However, slowly but surely, this thing began to unravel. It was slow at first, but then, after the moose, there was no stopping it. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Cut to a few months later.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm sitting at a friend's house when I get a phone call. On the other end of the phone is a hysterical, completely emotional person telling me that I have to come over immediately. Being somewhat chivalrous, I left my friend's house and found myself in a very awkward situation. I walked into the room that contained the girl and two of her friends. They were all crying. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Side note: A lot of what I'm about to say will more than likely seem insensitive to you. That's probably the point I'm trying to get across. You will come to understand that this position is completely justified. Just be glad it wasn't you who had to be there.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Apparently, one of their friends had passed away. As I stood in the room I couldn't help but wonder why they called me over. I didn't know this person and they seemed like they were consoling each other equally and didn't need my help. It was a little awkward, but about to get much, much more awkward.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Right before I could announce that I was leaving, they asked me to sit down. All three of them started to explain that M (that was the friend) lived in Alaska. While he was driving home, a moose was in the middle of the road. Unable to brake, M hit the moose and was killed. The moose was not. This was the Terminator of the moose herd. He was able to shrug off vehicles and go on his way. At this point of the conversation, all I could think about was the moose being interrupted by a vehicle strike and then continuing on with what he was doing.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;After the moose explanation, things got even more strange. The girl I was dating decided to tell me that &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;two weeks&lt;/span&gt; (that's 14 days, by the way) before meeting me she was planning on moving to Alaska to be with M forever because he was her soulmate. The funding fell through to move up there. That's the only reason it didn't happen. I didn't realize that not being able to afford travel arrangements to go be with Soulmate A meant that left a door open for Stupid Idiot With Zero Clue of What Was About to Happen B.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She then began to explain that she wanted to see more of M's qualities in me. Now I had to be the proxy for M. I felt a little like Whoopi Goldberg in &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Ghost&lt;/span&gt; for about three minutes before deciding to get out of there as fast as I could. Needless to say, things didn't last much longer with this girl. How could they? I don't think I could ever run into a moose and survive. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I often wonder if that moose is still alive. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Perhaps I should have gotten out when I realized she told everyone she was Italian. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-7423349801690340573?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/7423349801690340573/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=7423349801690340573' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/7423349801690340573'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/7423349801690340573'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2009/05/alaska.html' title='Alaska'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/Shayjp9qObI/AAAAAAAAAEw/FeKpWeR_Ns4/s72-c/moose.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-7808669795535093417</id><published>2009-05-20T21:20:00.005-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-20T22:02:55.758-05:00</updated><title type='text'>It's Probably Lupus</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/ShS7mXNM3II/AAAAAAAAAEg/PadS1H39ekM/s1600-h/House.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/ShS7mXNM3II/AAAAAAAAAEg/PadS1H39ekM/s320/House.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338097726079687810" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;So I bought a house.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It's not a big house or a tiny house, it's just a house. This seemed like the next logical step following closely after graduating college (basically twice) and getting a real job (hopefully only once). I'm now slowly discovering the little nuances and peculiar things associated with owning said house.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This is a story about one of those things: The Homeowners' Association Meeting.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I realized that I've only been subjected to the kind of thing that goes on at an HOA (as the cool kids refer to it) a few times in my life: Pretty much all of middle school, one incredibly fun group therapy session (to be revealed at a later time), and the HOA meeting.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Apparently I'm incorrectly doing two things: (1) I do not spend most of my life worrying about my HOA president and (2) I do not spend the remaining time of my life worrying about why my neighbors lives are substantially better than mine (regardless of what reality might suggest). &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;After being lured to the meeting under false pretenses, the fun began promptly at 6:00pm. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The meeting started with our president immediately berating certain people in the room and validating her position by saying that "she was the president, with a gavel, and could make any assessment she wanted to." &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Side note: for futher information on "making assessments" please visit &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lM-E-MK2Bw"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Now, keeping in mind that I'm a big fan of watching train wrecks unfold in front of my eyes, please appreciate this laundry list of things that happened at the meeting:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;The president decided it was necessary to talk for 35 minutes on how she wasn't having an inappropriate relationship with our property manager &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;and&lt;/span&gt; what life would be like if she had been. However, she made it abundantly clear how her life would be so much easier if she had. She wasn't good at proving any of her points, by the way.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;A lady tried to hit the president.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Our president was either blatantly or obliviously racist for at least half the meeting.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;A pastor stood up and told the president, with all due respect, that she was the worst thing that had ever happened to our community and that he wasn't sure if we could ever bounce back from it.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Our property manager decided to line out with great detail how exactly they could execute that inappropriate relationship.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;So, suffice it to say, nothing was really accomplished. I did learn one thing, though: If I ever accept a voluntary board presidency, I can do whatever I want as long as I have a gavel and a property manager. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-7808669795535093417?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/7808669795535093417/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=7808669795535093417' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/7808669795535093417'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/7808669795535093417'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2009/05/its-probably-lupus.html' title='It&apos;s Probably Lupus'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/ShS7mXNM3II/AAAAAAAAAEg/PadS1H39ekM/s72-c/House.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-2526512846276466750</id><published>2008-11-05T09:51:00.008-06:00</published><updated>2008-11-06T13:40:56.700-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Relevant Relativity</title><content type='html'>&lt;em&gt;Imagine that you live in a world where everyone you encounter gives you a business card. This is akin to shaking hands upon first meeting someone. From gas station attendants to little league players to corporate executives to elderly people at retirement homes, everyone issues you a business card upon meeting them. The business cards contain the person's name, contact information, and title. The only strange thing about this is that the person's title is whatever they want it to be and can change it at any time. Given that you live in this world of handshake business cards, how would you design your business card and what would your title be?&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a conversation the other day with someone about why something that I was a part of failed so fantastically. It went something like this:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: "This whole thing comes down to a lack of personal, relational experience. That's why it didn't work."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Person #1: "No, I think it was just that people weren't into it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Isn't that the same thing? I mean, if you're not into something then you never really connected with it, right?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Person #1: "No. I think they connected but just never really got into it, you know?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: "I guess not."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This was both the most pointless conversation I've had in a long time and the most eye opening. It made me start thinking about what's relevant. I take the position that if something is not relevant to me, I'm generally not into that subject (i.e. skydiving, techno music, Courtney Love, and sushi). But how do you make something relevant to everyone? I don't believe you can. What's relevant to me won't always be what's relevant to you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Think of it like this: Seinfeld was once regarded (and still is amongst some) as the best sitcom to ever air on television. However, if this were to be tested today it probably wouldn't hold up against newer, better written sitcoms like &lt;em&gt;Arrested Development&lt;/em&gt; or &lt;em&gt;The Office&lt;/em&gt;. If another series were created today that looked exactly like Seinfeld it wouldn't last longer than three weeks before it got the axe. It's already been done and the new generation has the market cornered.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Humor evolves just like the things people deem relevant and irrelevant. So why should we keep packaging something that looks and feels exactly like it always has and presenting it to the same group of people? Are we that ignorant to think that we'll come up with a set of different results?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If it consistently failed in the past, won't it continue to fail in the future?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-2526512846276466750?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/2526512846276466750/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=2526512846276466750' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2526512846276466750'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2526512846276466750'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/11/relevant-relativity.html' title='Relevant Relativity'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-8494930774403414317</id><published>2008-06-27T17:21:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-06-27T17:22:15.647-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Play It Like A Million Bucks (Illustrated Edition)</title><content type='html'>&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; "&gt;&lt;div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "&gt;&lt;div&gt;In the not so distant past, I was in a band. I loved being a part of this band. Now, I've been in bands before and they were fun and all, but they weren't like this one. Everyone in this band immediately clicked. We established a bit of a reputation and started getting calls to come play at various events around town. Occasionally, we would get calls from different churches asking if one or two of us could fill in for missing band members on Sunday mornings. &lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This is a story about one of those Sunday mornings. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;As mentioned before, I was in a band. At the point in time where this story takes place, we had just printed up a bunch of promotional material to advertise a concert we were about to play (see below).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7essjZn3yI/AAAAAAAAACg/QH2MHxX7paw/s1600-h/CSBDin.jpg"&gt;&lt;img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7essjZn3yI/AAAAAAAAACg/QH2MHxX7paw/s400/CSBDin.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167788978847866658" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; " /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;One Tuesday afternoon, I received a call from a local music minister who had just started at a prominent church in town. He explained to me that he had seen the above picture and was given a "vision" that two of us were to be in his new band. Being so used to the craziness that ministers throw at you, I laughed it off and asked Dustin (the one staring at me, just behind the guy in the front with the green shirt on) if he wanted to do this. He agreed and we waited for our practice day to arrive. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I threw in the next picture to point out that we actually did play shows. We weren't the sneaky type who have great pictures taken and then claim to be in a band...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7esmDZn3xI/AAAAAAAAACY/TGkuBVYXZ5M/s1600-h/D%26C.jpg"&gt;&lt;img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7esmDZn3xI/AAAAAAAAACY/TGkuBVYXZ5M/s400/D%26C.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167788867178716946" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; " /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When we finally got to practice with this guy (for the sake of the story, we'll call him PW), we realized that he was completely crazy. PW was as charismatic as they come. We wondered, had we given him a ribbon, if he would have danced around like Will Ferrell in &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Old School&lt;/span&gt; during Cheese's test. I'm almost positive he would have done it. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We were running your basic, everyday praise songs when he started flailing his arms around and telling us to stop. He kept insisting that the music needed something extra. We (a band of five people who had been pieced together at the last minute) did all we could to give it something extra. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;PW wasn't having it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He stopped us, ran up to me, and came uncomfortably close to my face. This was the actual conversation:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: "Can I help you?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;PW: "No, but I can help you."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: "What?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;PW: "You need to play this like a million bucks."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: "How would one do that?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;PW: "You know... like a million bucks. It explains itself."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: "I'm pretty sure it doesn't."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;PW: "It just needs... it just needs something else. Something to push it over the edge. We want people to experience this like they never have before."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: "So, do you want me to play louder?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;PW: "I want you to play it like a million bucks."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: "You got it, dude."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Then, with the most serious look I've ever seen someone give in a band practice setting, he takes a deep breath and says, "You need to play it like this." The only thing I've been able to find to explain what he did is this picture:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7erLjZn3wI/AAAAAAAAACQ/B6H-v5H8M-4/s1600-h/01nixon-web-c.jpg"&gt;&lt;img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7erLjZn3wI/AAAAAAAAACQ/B6H-v5H8M-4/s400/01nixon-web-c.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167787312400555778" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; " /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm sure if PW saw this picture today, he would say that God ordained Nixon to take a picture like that to prove his point 35 years later. Upon seeing this, I looked at Dustin who was staring at him in disbelief. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;How did this guy get this job? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It is in my nature to try and push people to their limits. Apparently, PW had no limits. As seriously as I could, I asked him, "How will we know if we're playing this song like a million bucks?" &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Coming uncomfortably close again, PW said in a whisper, "You'll know it because you'll see me 'getting into it.'"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I couldn't wait. We played the crap out of that song and he was ecstatic. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Cut to Sunday morning in a church filled with well over a thousand people. We're in the midst of playing the song when PW turns around and gives us the "Nixon" again. Then, unbeknownst to us, assumes the position of "getting into it" which closely resembles this:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7eq_zZn3vI/AAAAAAAAACI/Pfe6m5SuqIU/s1600-h/titanic.jpg"&gt;&lt;img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7eq_zZn3vI/AAAAAAAAACI/Pfe6m5SuqIU/s400/titanic.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167787110537092850" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; " /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I was in tears on stage. I literally went and hid behind the drummer because I was laughing so hard. But, upon further inspection, the congregation was eating this up. This was one of the most absurd things I'd ever seen. Maybe I had grown so cynical over the years that I couldn't comprehend the greatness of what was going on. Luckily, PW pushed it too far. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He stayed locked in the "king of the world" for almost the duration of the song, which, at the point of locking into it, we had just begun playing it. So, for five or six whole minutes, he looked like the above. Ridiculous. The congregation became visibly uncomfortable. It's a good thing they did, too. I was inches from losing all hope in today's church attendees. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;All that for "Friend of God," too. Which I'm not a big fan of due to the fact that I think it's highly irreverent. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So, for all of you church goers, please remember that wherever you are, whenever you can, please play it like a million bucks. Those around you will thank you. Trust me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-8494930774403414317?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/8494930774403414317/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=8494930774403414317' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/8494930774403414317'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/8494930774403414317'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/06/play-it-like-million-bucks-illustrated.html' title='Play It Like A Million Bucks (Illustrated Edition)'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R7essjZn3yI/AAAAAAAAACg/QH2MHxX7paw/s72-c/CSBDin.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-7297094647822274179</id><published>2008-06-27T17:19:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-06-27T17:20:53.587-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The Playlist</title><content type='html'>&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; "&gt;&lt;div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;Here it is, kids. My life in a playlist of songs. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "&gt;I need to split this up into categories. Being a lover of structure and order, I tried to arrange the playlist to where it would make the most sense without sacrificing some chronological connection with my life.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "&gt;Childhood/Early Development:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;1. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Here Comes the Sun&lt;/span&gt; - The Beatles (Abbey Road)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When I was growing up, my mom introduced me to some of the best bands on the planet. The Beatles were always her favorite, though. For those of you that don't know, my mom was a single mom for the first six years of my life. There were many times when it was just the two of us dancing around to her old vinyl records. For a six year old kid, you couldn't ask for more. This song is important to me because of what it says. "Here comes the sun / Here comes the sun / And I say / It's all right" I know this was her way to tell me we were going to make it. We did, by the way.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;2. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Bohemian Rhapsody&lt;/span&gt; - Queen (A Night at the Opera)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm pretty sure this is the song that helped kick start my slightly jacked up thought process. My mom has the best taste in music. This was another band that we used to listen to with the volume turned all the way up. I'm so glad she didn't believe in making me listen to "kiddie music." I am very grateful for my mom getting me started off on the right track. These first two songs totally transport me back to my childhood. MAMA!! OOOOHH OOOOH OOOH!! How great is that?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;3. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Superstition &lt;/span&gt;- Stevie Wonder (Original Musiquarium I)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This was the first song that made me want to walk into a building with tons of people standing around watching me walk and bob my head to the beat (think: &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Saturday Night Fever&lt;/span&gt;, but without the hair grease). This is the first time that I &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;felt&lt;/span&gt; the music actually moving me. Anytime I'm in a live music setting and playing an instrument, I always try to work in a little of this song to what I'm playing. This is the one that taught me how to feel the music, not just listen to it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;4. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Where the Streets Have No Name&lt;/span&gt; - U2 (The Joshua Tree)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I remember exactly where I was when I first heard this song: The skating rink. Shut up. It was awesome. The thing that was so different about &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Streets&lt;/span&gt; was that it opened my eyes to the fact that a song could be so much bigger than me. To me, this is what will be playing as I walk into Heaven. This is also the song that made me want to be a part of this whole music game. Thank you, Edge. You've changed my life forever.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Sympathy Card:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;5. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Center Aisle&lt;/span&gt; - Caedmon's Call (Caedmon's Call)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When I was 15, I was diagnosed with cancer. To say the least, I was devastated. This song (although being written about the death of a girl by her own hand) perfectly conveys my feelings of the diagnosis and how hard it actually hit me at the time. No 15 year old kid should ever have to come face to face with their mortality the way I was forced to. It was so hard to (and still kinda is) put to words exactly how I felt on January 9th, 1998. The good thing was that I didn't have to. It was already there.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;6. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Come and Listen&lt;/span&gt; - David Crowder Band (A Collision)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When all of the dust had cleared and I was left standing with a clean bill of health, I had the hardest time coming up with the words to express my gratitude to God for what He had done in my life. I realize this song was written years after my ordeal, but it fits so perfectly that it was added to the playlist. He took a kid that didn't deserve to make it through a horrible disease, healed him, and then blessed him beyond belief. If you ever hear me complaining, please slap me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Growing Up:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;7. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;I Do&lt;/span&gt; - Better Than Ezra (Closer)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This song came out around one of the happiest times in my life. To be honest, I can't listen to this album without having a stupid grin on my face. There are so many stories, emotions, and generally stupid stuff that go hand in hand with this album. I chose this one off of the album because I've really asked myself the question while listening to a great song, "I wonder if anyone else is listening to this exact same song and feeling the same way that I do?" I hope there was. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Girls/Relationships:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;8. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Good Time&lt;/span&gt; - Counting Crows (Hard Candy)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I get so nervous sometimes. Especially around a girl I really, really like. I'll get shy, I'll withdraw, I'll screw the whole thing up trying to make something happen. It's funny because I only do this with the ones that really mean something to me. I know it's a throw away relationship if I'm not having feelings like the ones this song wraps up. From the lyrics to the contemplative mood of the arrangement, this song really shows the outward process I go through while trying to get to know someone.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;9. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Try&lt;/span&gt; - John Mayer Trio (Try!)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;If &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Good Time&lt;/span&gt; was the outward expression, &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Try&lt;/span&gt; is the awkward inner turmoil that I'm always trying to talk myself out of. It's almost as if John Mayer came and interviewed me then, immediately after the interview, ran back to his house and wrote this song. "Don't go and blow it / You do every single time" No freaking kidding, John. One of these days, I'm going to get it right and it will be a wonderful thing. This song, however, will still be very applicable after I get married. "You make me want to try" I want to try and I want to keep trying to get her attention with little stupid things. Fun stories to tell the grandkids, I guess.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;No... Seriously. Growing Up:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;10. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;All These Things That I've Done&lt;/span&gt; - The Killers (Hot Fuss)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Ladies and gentlemen, my thought process in song. It's all over the place. As much as I like structure and order and all of that Type A crap, I'm all over the place in my head. This fun little song about redemption has burrowed its way so far down into my soul that it will always be a part of me. Let me put it this way: This song means enough to me that every time my band played a show, we closed with this. You save your highlights for the opener and the closer. If you say hello with a bang, you better go out the same way. Closing with this song was my way of leaving a little piece of me out there on the stage.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;11. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Sentimental Guy&lt;/span&gt; - Ben Folds (Songs for Silverman)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Perhaps I've grown too cynical for my own good over the years. There was a time in my life where I didn't feel so emotionless. Thankfully, traces of that guy are starting to show back up in my everyday life. This song does a good job of showing how a new personality can sneak up on you and, before you know it, take over who you used to be. I think after realizing the "Real World" wasn't as glamorous as I thought (wanted) it to be, this happened to me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;12. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;My Stupid Mouth&lt;/span&gt; - John Mayer (AS/IS: Cleveland/Cincinnati)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've always had a problem saying things when I shouldn't. I can't stop myself. It has to come out. There's nothing in this world that can stop me if something &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;must&lt;/span&gt; be said. There are countless times I wish I could have "30 little seconds back" to fix something stupid I just said. Even when I say I'm never saying anything again, I always come back to have the last word. I'm praying that a filter finds its way into my life sometime soon to help alleviate this problem. **Side note: The live version of this song was chosen because of a special breakdown that happens in the middle of the song. Listen to it and you'll understand.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Relationships, Two: Electric Boogaloo:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;13. INTRO! &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;Rock N Roll&lt;/span&gt; - Ryan Adams (Rock N Roll)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This is how it feels every time I play on stage. I never feel cool. I always feel like I'm an imposter who's on stage and will be found out in a moment's notice. But even more than being on stage, this is how I feel every time I'm with someone I know I'm supposed to be with. I feel so unworthy to be a part of something that I love so much. Which is why that this is the intro for:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; "&gt;Crush&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt; - Dave Matthews Band (Before These Crowded Streets)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This is the song I'm going to sing to my wife. It's reserved for her. I refuse to attach anyone else's name to it. This song is that significant to me. Both lyrically and musically complex, this song sums up what Dave Matthews Band means to me. But over all of that, this song is elusive. I've seen Dave 16 times in concert and have only heard this song once out of 16 times. But isn't that the great thing about something that you love? When it eludes you, it makes you want it more. Maybe I'm over-analyzing this.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Life/Being at Peace:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;14.&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt; Clarity&lt;/span&gt; - John Mayer (Heavier Things)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;As if one battle with cancer wasn't enough, I had to walk through it again three years ago. Though the second time wasn't as severe, it was just as emotionally and physically taxing on me as the first time. After it was all over, I had, for lack of a better word, clarity. I decided I wouldn't let moments that deserved my attention pass me by anymore. I hold tightly to this song as it reminds me to let the things that aren't worth your time go on without you and hold on to the things that mean something.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "&gt;15. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "&gt;The Door&lt;/span&gt; - Losing Anna (Losing Anna)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This song is about the devil. To be more specific, it's about the constant struggle to live my life the way it's supposed to be lived. This song constantly reminds me to keep evaluating where I'm at to make sure I can be above reproach. What's funny about this song, though, is that it's such a simple song. I tend to make things so complex when there's always a simple solution. This song brings me back to that reality. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I think I'll save the honorable mention section for another time. If you could see my notes on this assignment, you'd understand. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-7297094647822274179?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/7297094647822274179/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=7297094647822274179' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/7297094647822274179'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/7297094647822274179'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/06/playlist.html' title='The Playlist'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-1597963712361700645</id><published>2008-03-25T18:11:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-03-25T18:39:21.545-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The How and The Why</title><content type='html'>The scene was very familiar to me. Only this time it wasn't me who was listening. I was the one doing the talking and offering predictions and explanations of the things to come. It wasn't so long ago that I was the one in the other chair so I kept telling myself to go easy on her and squeeze out the fraction of hope that is left in a situation like this. So there I was, reliving every moment of one of the hardest times in my life and loving the fact that I went through everything I went through to get here: Trying to show someone the light in a room that won't stop getting darker. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;A family member was just diagnosed with stage four cancer that seems to be in all the wrong places around her body. I was asked, along with my grandfather, to help ease her mind of the things to come. I remember wishing that I had someone ten years ago to help walk me through the next months of my life. I was grateful that I could be the person who got to talk to her. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;One of the things that I remember most about my time with cancer was the support group that wasn't very supporting. To appease a nurse of mine, I agreed to attend a support group for kids coping with cancer. Starting off in typical AA style, we went around the room introduced ourselves, our sicknesses, and our course of treatment. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I went last. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The moment I finished talking, Cindy was already yelling at me. Apparently, Cindy had a diagnosis that was worse than mine and was mad at me for not sharing her degree of sickness. As if someone else had commandeered my speaking, I told her very calmly that I was sorry for her. I meant it. I know I meant it because I believed what I told her. I also told her that I didn't choose to have this sickness and that, if I could, I would take everyone else's for my own and let them all walk out the door. She apologized and the meeting was over. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I don't know why this had such an impact on me. I guess I just started thinking about the various levels of control and blame and how the mind can twist things into a lifestyle that controls even how your body reacts to certain situations. I think it was the first time I had actually dealt with the difference between me and people without the support that seemed to come so easily to me. I was heartbroken for her.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It was suddenly so clear to me how powerful the mind is. The mind can completely control how your body reacts to anything. If I woke up and thought, "Today is going to suck," it did. If I did the opposite (regardless of the factors that surrounded the situation), I had a really good day. I remembered this as I talked to Jane on Sunday about what her life was about to become. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The funny thing is: I never deserved the healing I was given. I could never live a life that would constitute having something that precious just handed to me. &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Twice.&lt;/span&gt; I know I'll never live up to it and that everything will seem like I'm striving in vain to reach a certain level of thankfulness that should always be radiating from my face. Somedays I feel just like Paul when he wrote that he couldn't understand why he did the things he did when he knew that there was a better way. But, then again, grace is a funny thing. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So, for Jane, I pray that she feels that grace and knows that healing that I've felt twice over. She has a long and difficult road ahead of her and can use all the support she can get. If you find yourself talking to God, remember Jane and pray for her peace because she's going to need all she can get.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-1597963712361700645?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/1597963712361700645/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=1597963712361700645' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/1597963712361700645'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/1597963712361700645'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/03/how-and-why.html' title='The How and The Why'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-7652816724226862064</id><published>2008-02-27T21:02:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-02-27T21:24:10.299-06:00</updated><title type='text'>The Klosterman Questions (Part Four)</title><content type='html'>16. Someone builds an optical portal that allows you to see a vision of your own life in the future (it's essentially a crystal ball that shows a randomly selected image of what your life will be like in twenty years). You can only see into this portal for thirty seconds. When you finally peer into the crystal, you see yourself in a living room, two decades older than you are today. You are watching a Canadian football game, and you are extremely happy. You are wearing a CFL jersey. Your chair is surrounded by books and magazines that promote the Canadian Football League, and there are CFL pennants covering your walls. You are alone in the room, but you are gleefully muttering about historical moments in Canadian football history. It becomes clear that - for some unknown reason - you have become obsessed with Canadian football. And this future is static and absolute; no matter what you do, &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;this future will happen.&lt;/span&gt; The optical portal is never wrong. This destiny cannot be changed.&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;The next day, you are flipping through television channels and randomly come across a preseason CFL game between the Toronto Argonauts and the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Knowing your inevitable future, do you now watch it?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;17. You are sitting in an empty bar (in a town you've never before visited), drinking Bacardi with a soft-spoken acquaintance you barely know. After an hour, a third individual walks into the tavern and sits by himself, and you ask your acquaintance who the new man is. "Be careful of that guy," you are told. "He is a man with a past." A few minutes later, a fourth person enters the bar; he also sits alone. You ask your acquaintance who this new individual is. "Be careful of that guy, too," he says. "He is a man with no past."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Which of these two people do you trust less?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;18. You have won a prize. The prize has two options, and you can choose either (but not both). The first option is a year in Europe with a monthly stipend of $2,000. The second option is ten minutes on the moon.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Which option do you select?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;19. Your best friend is taking a nap on the floor of your living room. Suddenly, you are faced with a bizarre existential problem: This friend is going to die unless you kick them (as hard as you can) in the rib cage. If you don't kick them while they slumber, they will never wake up. However, you can never explain this to your friend; if you later inform them that you did this to save their life, they will also die from that. So you have to kick a sleeping friend in the ribs, and you can't tell them why.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Since you cannot tell your friend the truth, what excuse will you fabricate to explain this (seemingly inexplicable) attack?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;20. For whatever the reason, two unauthorized movies are made about your life. The first is an independently released documentary, primarily comprised of interviews with people who know you and bootleg footage from your actual life. Critics are describing the documentary as "brutally honest and relentlessly fair." Meanwhile, Columbia Tri-Star has produced a big-budget biopic of your life, casting major Hollywood stars as you and all your acquaintances; though the movie is based on actual events, screenwriters have taken some liberties with the facts. Critics are split on the artistic merits of this fictionalized account, but audiences love it. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Which film would you be most interested in seeing?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;21. Imagine you could go back to the age of five and relive the rest of your life, knowing everything that you know now. You will reexperience your entire adolescence with both the cognitive ability of an adult &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;and&lt;/span&gt; the memories of everything you've learned from having lived your life previously.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Would you lose your virginity earlier or later than you did the first time around (and by how many years)?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;22. You work in an office. Generally, you are popular with your coworkers. However, you discover that there are currently two rumors circulating in the office gossip mill, and both involve you. The first rumor is that you got drunk at the office holiday party and had sex with one of your married coworkers. This rumor is completely true, but most people don't believe it. The second rumor is that you have been stealing hundreds of dollars of office supplies (and selling them to cover a gambling debt). This rumor is completely false, but virtually everyone assumes it is factual.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Which of these two rumors is most troubling to you?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;23. Consider this possibility:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;a. Think about deceased TV star John Ritter.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;b. Now, pretend Ritter had never become famous. Pretend he was never affected by the trappings of fame, and try to imagine what his personality would have been like.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;c. Now, imagine that this person - the unfamous John Ritter - is a character in a situation comedy.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;d. Now, you are also a character in this sitcom, and the unfamous John Ritter is your sitcom father.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;e. However, this sitcom is actually your real life. In other words, you are living inside a sitcom: Everything about your life is a construction, featuring the unfamous John Ritter playing himself (in the role of your TV father). But this is not a sitcom. This is &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;your real life.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;How would you feel about this?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-7652816724226862064?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/7652816724226862064/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=7652816724226862064' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/7652816724226862064'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/7652816724226862064'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/02/klosterman-questions-part-four.html' title='The Klosterman Questions (Part Four)'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-2952402763947022841</id><published>2008-02-16T15:04:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-02-16T15:20:59.122-06:00</updated><title type='text'>The Klosterman Questions (Part Three)</title><content type='html'>11. You are watching a movie in a crowded theater. Though the plot is mediocre, you find yourself dazzled by the special effects. But with twenty minutes left in the film, you are struck with an undeniable feeling of doom: You are suddenly certain your mother has just died. There is no logical reason for this to be true, but you are &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;certain&lt;/span&gt; of it. You are overtaken with the irrational metaphysical sense that - somewhere - your mom has just perished. But this is only an intuitive, amorphous feeling; there is no evidence for this, and your mother has not been ill.&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Would you immediately exit the theater, or would you finish watching the movie?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;12. You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, "I will now make them a dollar more attractive." He waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different. But - somehow - this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can't deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though - you can only pay him once. You can't keep giving him money until you're satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum up front.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;How much cash do you give the wizard?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;13. Every person you have ever slept with (or dated, for the sake of the fram) is invited to a banquet where you are the guest of honor. No one will be in attendance except you, the collection of your former lovers, and the catering service. After the meal, you are asked to give a fifteen-minute speech to the assembly.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;What do you talk about?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;14. For reasons that cannot be explained, cats can suddenly read at a twelfth-grade level. They can't talk and they can't write, but they can read silently and understand the text. Many cats love this new skill, because they now have something to do all day while they lay around the house; however, a few cats become depressed, because reading forces them to realize the limitations of their existence (not to mention the utter frustration of being unable to express themselves).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;This being the case, do you think the average cat would enjoy &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Garfield&lt;/span&gt;, or would cats find this cartoon to be an insulting caricature?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;15. You have a brain tumor. Though there is no discomfort at the moment, this tumor would unquestionably kill you in six months. However, your life can (and will) be saved by an operation; the only downside is that there will be a brutal incision to your frontal lobe. After the surgery, you will be significantly less intelligent. You will still be a fully functioning adult, but you will be less logical, you will have a terrible memory, and you will have little ability to understand complex concepts or difficult ideas. The surgery is in two weeks.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;How do you spend the next fourteen days?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-2952402763947022841?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/2952402763947022841/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=2952402763947022841' title='8 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2952402763947022841'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2952402763947022841'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/02/klosterman-questions-part-three.html' title='The Klosterman Questions (Part Three)'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>8</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-2422525523676377803</id><published>2008-02-14T19:01:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2008-02-14T19:15:22.241-06:00</updated><title type='text'>The Klosterman Questions (Part Two)</title><content type='html'>6. At long last, someone invents "the dream VCR." This machine allows you to tape an entire evening's worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the inventor of the dream VCR will only allow you to use his device if you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch your dreams, you must do so with your family and closest friends in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don't agree to this, you can't use the dream VCR.&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Would you still do this?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;7. Defying all expectations, a group of Scottish marine biologists capture a live Loch Ness Monster. In almost an unbelievable coincidence, a bear hunter in the Pacific Northwest shoots a Sasquatch in the thigh, thereby allowing zoologists to take the furry monster into captivity. These events happen on the same afternoon. That evening, the president announces he may have thyroid cancer and will undergo a biopsy later that week.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;You are the front-page editor of &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The New York Times:&lt;/span&gt; What do you play as the biggest story?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;8. You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal. You find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating, consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they have one quirk: This individual is obsessed with Jim Henson's gothic puppet fantasy &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Dark Crystal.&lt;/span&gt; Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a month, he/she peppers casual conversation with &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Dark Crystal&lt;/span&gt; references, uses &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Dark Crystal&lt;/span&gt; analogies to explain everyday events, and occasionally likes to talk intensely about the film's "deeper philosophy."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;9. A novel titled &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Interior Mirror&lt;/span&gt; is released to mammoth commercial success (despite middling reviews). However, a curious social trend emerges: Though no one can prove a direct scientific link, it appears that almost 30 percent of the people who read the book immediately become homosexual. Many of these newfound homosexuals credit the book for helping them reach this conclusion about their orientation, despite the fact that &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Interior Mirror&lt;/span&gt; is ostensibly a crime novel with no homoerotic content (and was written by a straight man).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Would this phenomenon increase (or decrease) the likelihood of you reading this book?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;10. This is the opening line of Jay McInerney's &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Bright Lights, Big City:&lt;/span&gt; "You are not the kind of guy who would be in a place like this at this time of the morning." Think about that line in the context of the novel (assuming you've read it). Now go to your CD collection and find Heart's &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Little Queen&lt;/span&gt; album (assuming you own it). Listen to the opening riff to "Barracuda."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Which of these two introductions is a higher form of art?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-2422525523676377803?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/2422525523676377803/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=2422525523676377803' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2422525523676377803'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2422525523676377803'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/02/klosterman-questions-part-two.html' title='The Klosterman Questions (Part Two)'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-252806004585014579</id><published>2008-02-13T20:47:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2008-02-13T21:52:35.024-06:00</updated><title type='text'>The Klosterman Questions (Part One)</title><content type='html'>These questions can be found in Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. I thought it would be interesting to see how everyone answers these questions. So, please, post your comments honestly. The next set will be posted after everyone responds to these.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1. Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks - he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can't learn any more; he can only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he's doing these five tricks &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;with real magic.&lt;/span&gt; It's not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He's legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;2. Let us assume a fully grown, completely healthy Clydesdale horse has his hooves shackled to the ground while his head is held in place with thick rope. He is conscious and standing upright, but completely immobile. And let us assume that - for some reason - every political prisoner on earth (as cited by Amnesty International) will be released from captivity if you can kick this horse to death in less than twenty minutes. You are allowed to wear steel-toed boots. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Would you attempt to do this?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;3. Let us assume there are two boxes on a table. In one box, there is a relatively normal turtle; in the other, Adolf Hitler's skull. You have to select one of these items for your home. If you select the turtle, can't give it away and you have to keep it alive for two years; if either of these parameters are not met, you will be fined $999 by the state. If you select Hitler's skull, you are required to display it in a semi-prominent location in your living room for the same amount of time, although you will be paid a stipend of $120 per month for doing so. Display of the skull must be apolitical. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Which option do you select?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;4. Genetic engineers at Johns Hopkins University announce that they have developed a so-called "super gorilla." Though the animal cannot speak, it has a sign language lexicon of over twelve thousand words, an I.Q. of almost 85, and - most notably - a vague sense of self-awareness. Oddly, the creature (who weighs seven hundred pounds) becomes fascinated by football. The gorilla aspires to play the game at its highest level and quickly develops the rudimentary skills of a defensive end. ESPN analyst Tom Jackson speculates that this gorilla would be "borderline unblockable" and would likely average six sacks a game (although Jackson concedes the beast might be susceptible to counters and misdirection plays). Meanwhile, the gorilla has made it clear he would never intentionally injure any opponent. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;You are commissioner of the NFL: Would you allow this gorilla to sign with the Oakland Raiders?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;5. You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years, someone will break both of your soul mate's collarbones with a Crescent wrench, and there is only one way you can stop this from happening: You must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear - for the rest of your life - sound as if it's being performed by the band Alice in Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival on the radio, it will sound (to your ears) like it's being played by Alice in Chains. If you see Radiohead live, every one of their tunes will sound like it's being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on TV, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Staley performing a capella (but it will only sound this way &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;to you&lt;/span&gt;).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Would you swallow the pill?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-252806004585014579?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/252806004585014579/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=252806004585014579' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/252806004585014579'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/252806004585014579'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/02/klosterman-questions-part-one.html' title='The Klosterman Questions (Part One)'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-4779879503125364640</id><published>2008-02-12T21:31:00.004-06:00</published><updated>2008-06-26T09:27:56.887-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Some Things You Should Know</title><content type='html'>After receiving some inspiration from Dan's first post, I decided I would share a few facts about me: &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am not a morning person&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Or an evening person for that matter&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am a 10:30am person&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I have the easiest job a person could ever have&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm currently finishing my requirements to take the CPA&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I wish my chosen field didn't sound so boring&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've seen Dave Matthews Band sixteen (16) times &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And have no plans to stop going&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I play the guitar&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I can also become a Dave Matthews jukebox when I pick one up&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am the oldest of three (3) children&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;By seven (7) and nine (9) years&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I have a natural ability to make others want to talk to me&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am a closet drummer&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Whenever I use A-1 Steak Sauce on my steak, it makes me blush&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Which is baffling to me&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I wouldn't mind being the President some day&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I hate wearing dress clothes&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'd like to own a business so I could wear jeans and a t-shirt everyday&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I feel the most comfortable whenever I'm around my close friends and family&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I also feel comfortable when I hear Counting Crows&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm obsessed with numbers&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Especially the ones from Lost&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I see and relate everything in terms of math&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Maybe I'm a little too honest sometimes&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Maybe I'm not&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I can only do one thing at a time&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Seriously&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm the definition of a perfectionist&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I hate doing things by myself&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But will if I'm forced&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;There's nothing that compares to hearing music live&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm a little bit of a control freak&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Which is probably the reason why I'm always the one volunteering to drive&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I try to be as simple as possible&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But I know that it rarely happens&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I used to have a band that was named after me&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I didn't name it&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm an anxious flyer&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;That probably goes back to the whole "control" thing&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;If Gob Bluth ran for President, I'd be his campaign manager&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It would be glorious&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I often wonder if I could have made a decent actor&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I doubt it, but I still wonder&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I miss playing baseball&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I prefer to write in pencil&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Come to think of it, I think I only have two pens that I know of&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I think I have an addiction to Pumas&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The shoes, not the animals&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Saucony Jazz, as well&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Those are shoes, by the way&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Maybe it's just a shoe addiction&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I think that's enough for now...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-4779879503125364640?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/4779879503125364640/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=4779879503125364640' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/4779879503125364640'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/4779879503125364640'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/02/some-things-you-should-know.html' title='Some Things You Should Know'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-9117118976987250954</id><published>2008-02-05T20:32:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2008-02-05T20:46:22.459-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Watching and Waiting</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R6kciD823CI/AAAAAAAAABo/2gXu9PcRvF8/s1600-h/l_36fd583e0f3fd05556eda5b03d5a5c58.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R6kciD823CI/AAAAAAAAABo/2gXu9PcRvF8/s400/l_36fd583e0f3fd05556eda5b03d5a5c58.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163689819258674210" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I didn't want to wait too long to write this post. My sister, who I love tremendously, recently told me that my blog was slanted a bit toward the negative. It was never my intention to have that be the recurring feeling of this fun little outlet. So, in order to perk things up around here...&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My sister makes me laugh. She makes me laugh because she's so much like me and I don't think she fully grasps how much yet. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am nine (9) years older than my sister. For a while, we didn't have much in common. I mean, she was eight (8) years old when I could get into R rated movies. Now, however, I am finding more and more common ground on which to stand with her. I think this is great, special, and any other happy/celebratory adjective you'd like to throw in here. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My sister is about to enter into a time of drastic change in her life. At the end of her junior year of high school, she's about to be plucked from the Dallas area and transplanted into the Shreveport area in order to be able to finish her senior year in Louisiana. I'm afraid that the culture shock for her may be greater than she's expecting. I know, seeing that she's so much like me and all, that she'll adjust, make friends, and find her place quickly amongst her new surroundings. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It has been fun watching my sister grow up and become more sure of herself. There's something to be said about being able to watch confidence grow and mature before your eyes. I'm proud of who my sister is and who she is becoming.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So...don't worry, Kimmy. You'll do just fine. You've got great things ahead of you and I can't wait to watch them happen.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;(Just so there's no confusion... I'm the one on the left in the picture and my sister is the one on the right.)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-9117118976987250954?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/9117118976987250954/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=9117118976987250954' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/9117118976987250954'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/9117118976987250954'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/02/watching-and-waiting.html' title='Watching and Waiting'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R6kciD823CI/AAAAAAAAABo/2gXu9PcRvF8/s72-c/l_36fd583e0f3fd05556eda5b03d5a5c58.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-2177276495834775024</id><published>2008-01-31T14:21:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2008-01-31T14:39:21.237-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Pure Genius</title><content type='html'>&lt;object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-dd602fdd48ade7b6" 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bgcolor="#FFFFFF"flashvars="flvurl=http://v8.nonxt8.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Ddd602fdd48ade7b6%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1329987888%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D6EC3A0B07CC39D2BECCA5465328552C5A6865DAB.507BAFE25C653891EEB09BDD33E6564129ECD6D3%26key%3Dck1&amp;iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Ddd602fdd48ade7b6%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DDVc4rkSr75C9TulLrVjT11M8OO4&amp;autoplay=0&amp;ps=blogger"allowFullScreen="true" /&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-2177276495834775024?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='enclosure' type='video/mp4' href='http://www.blogger.com/video-play.mp4?contentId=dd602fdd48ade7b6&amp;type=video%2Fmp4' length='0'/><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/2177276495834775024/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=2177276495834775024' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2177276495834775024'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2177276495834775024'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/01/pure-genius.html' title='Pure Genius'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-1904979299517674050</id><published>2008-01-31T12:28:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2008-01-31T12:52:36.661-06:00</updated><title type='text'>On Notice</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R6IT6D823BI/AAAAAAAAABg/LOBKe_7UxrU/s1600-h/OnNotice.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R6IT6D823BI/AAAAAAAAABg/LOBKe_7UxrU/s400/OnNotice.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161710011133910034" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;In order to fully clarify these choices, I'll go down the list one by one.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;1. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Wedding Showers.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; It seems like every time I turn around there is another shower to attend. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends. I just hate the constant bombardment of the "When will it be your turn" questions. By the way, since when did guys start getting invited to wedding showers? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;2. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;WalMart Parking Lots.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; I can't park far enough away from the front door of WalMart to actually feel safe anymore. I'm going to suggest the addition of making it safely inside a WalMart to next year's X Games. Has anyone else ever had to wait for 7 minutes for someone to park in a closer parking space even though there is an open spot two down from the one they want?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;3. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Long Camera Holds On Soap Operas.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; Does this really build tension? Is it really that effective? Being a bottom line type of person, this really annoys me. It annoys me even more when shows I love employ this clever device. We get it, Jack Bauer is in love with Audrey. Now, can we move on to actually finding the terrorists or should we just continue to waste time?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;4. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Musicals.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; They make me angry. I don't know why. I've been like this since childhood. I could never understand how people can break out into song and have people they've never met sing the exact same words in perfect harmony. Mind blowing.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;5. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;February.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; The nonconformist month. You just can't be like the other months, can you? Surprising us every four years with an extra day. I keep telling myself it's a phase and you'll grow out of it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;6. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Shows About Doctors**&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; This is starred because, in my opinion, there only needs to be two shows about doctors on television: House, M.D. and Scrubs. One actually deals with medicine, the other contains some aspects of medicine and isn't afraid to be serious while actually being funny at the same time. Seriously, if you were sick, you'd want House to be your doctor. I think he's my hero. Sorry Grey's, Private Practice, Nip/Tuck, and ER fans. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;7. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Casual Fridays.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; If we can get the same amount of work done in casual clothes on Fridays, why can't we do the same amount of work in casual clothes the rest of the week? I love being comfortable and I hate dress clothes. Casual Fridays are such a tease.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;8. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Bicyclers.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; Why do they think they own the road? Why won't they move out of the way? Why won't they use the freakin' sidewalks?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-1904979299517674050?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/1904979299517674050/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=1904979299517674050' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/1904979299517674050'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/1904979299517674050'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/01/on-notice.html' title='On Notice'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R6IT6D823BI/AAAAAAAAABg/LOBKe_7UxrU/s72-c/OnNotice.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154844681208093093.post-2098473100758397548</id><published>2008-01-29T00:03:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2008-01-29T00:51:56.886-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Grammar Train, I Wanna Ride Your Train, Baby!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R57KRz8229I/AAAAAAAAAA0/GInSx1hZfh4/s1600-h/BT-yourretarded-catalog-571.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R57KRz8229I/AAAAAAAAAA0/GInSx1hZfh4/s400/BT-yourretarded-catalog-571.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160784630365215698" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Is anyone else fed up with people who don't even try to use correct &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;grammar when they write? I mean, I realize I am the textbook definition of a perfectionist, but this has to be getting to someone other than me. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I had a conversation with someone the other day who tried to make me believe &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;that omitting an apostrophe here or a letter there actually saves them a material amount of ti&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;me. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;This got me to thinking. Being a numbers person by nature, I wanted to try and f&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;igure out exactly how much time I could save per day by omitting letters and destroying sentence structure. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;I figure one keystro&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;ke takes me somewhere between one and three milliseconds to type (I'm probably being too conservative, here). So, if you do the math on that, you'd have to skip 1,000 commas or apostrophes to have one second of your life back. Is it really worth looking like that much of an idiot to live (and this may be a stretch) an extra two minutes? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;Oh, one more thing. I realize that this isn't going to change anything for anyone. But please, for my own sanity, write the correct version of "your" or "you're" when you email, text, or write me. I am so tired of being told that I have intangible things in my possession such as my "awesome" or my "gay" when you really mean to tell me that I am one of these things. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style=" ;font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-size:small;"&gt;This is totally up for any grammatical criticism that you have. Just leave your red pens at home. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7154844681208093093-2098473100758397548?l=chrissolomon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/feeds/2098473100758397548/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7154844681208093093&amp;postID=2098473100758397548' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2098473100758397548'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7154844681208093093/posts/default/2098473100758397548'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chrissolomon.blogspot.com/2008/01/grammar-train-i-wanna-ride-your-train.html' title='Grammar Train, I Wanna Ride Your Train, Baby!'/><author><name>Chris Solomon</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/05712262038127698420</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HYWSET1Uvvw/R57KRz8229I/AAAAAAAAAA0/GInSx1hZfh4/s72-c/BT-yourretarded-catalog-571.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry></feed>
