Lights Out: Dylan Self

“You will not find the new Jimi Hendrix behind a guitar… probably, Banksy is the new Jimi Hendrix. There will be no more John Bonhams anymore, and we don’t need that anymore, it’s over. The time has changed.” -Jojo Mayer

The Epitome of Unnecessary Political Correctness

For some reason, there are a number of people who pair anger and automobile. Not me. When I get behind the wheel, I’m either calmly thinking, or rocking out to Muse at hazardous volumes. I enjoy driving because it gives me a chance to do both those activities without feeling like I could be doing something more productive (ie: rocking out to Muse at hazardous volumes while playing drums). The road has always been a neutral, occasionally amusing place for me.

As with anything though, there are exceptions to the rule. And as it is, they are not good. There are two things about the road that annoy me endlessly. One of them is old people. No doubt, this is a commonplace pet-peeve for young drivers such as myself. I realize blue hairs have their excuses for driving at awe-inspiringly slow speeds (lack of reflexes or something), but let’s face it- driving on Horizon Ridge next to Macdonald Ranch Sun City* is a surefire set up for extreme irritability and momentary reevaluation of social security.

There is one thing however, that just really, really gets me. They call it the three-way stop. I hate this thing. It is the worst. It embodies almost everything I dislike. Here’s why:

You’re driving along in a residential area, minding your own business, not a care in the world, and then you come upon the familiar stop sign. You obey its command, sure, but then you notice something. There’s only three directions of pavement here- the one you’re headed on, the one opposite of that, and a third one pointed 90 degrees at either direction opening into your street. There’s no fourth way. WHY ON EARTH IS THERE A STOP SIGN?!?!?! You pass by this situation completely octagon-less most of the time. Usually the guy on the third street can handle himself. But noOo, apparently not on this street. The intersection demands you sacrifice time and gas for this person, all out of some ill-conceived ideology of equality. It can’t just be the one guy who has to stop his car. Everybody has to stop their car. Otherwise it’s just not fair.

Do our civil engineers think we live in the Soviet Union? Is my name Boris? No! This is America. We don’t pick up the slack for other people unless we feel like it.** Don’t get me wrong here. I know blogging is (was) a trendy medium for pretending socialism is cool, but road designers with marxist agendas annoy me without end and I must speak the truth here. And don’t get me wrong either. I believe that the occasional three-way stop might be necessary on a street with heavy traffic just like I believe in feeding the homeless or giving to charity, or possibly mild redistribution of wealth. It’s those residential TWS’s though that make my blood boil. If I had the funding I would start a political group dedicated to ridding the world of these institutions. They’re like the rules at a childhood friend’s house. They made NO sense. Their mom was a lunatic. She said things like “Youngest first” and “You need to be in bed by 7:30.” Idiots!

The TWS is simply a waste of time. We’ve all been on the third street, acknowledging our disposition as someone who might have to wait a little while. I got over it. I think everybody else did too. We’ve all taken the left-hand turn. It might have taken 30 seconds. Not a big deal. As for me, I will be proudly california-stopping every TWS I encounter. I recommend you do the same.

*Sorry London Chapter, that’s an esoteric Vegas reference you will not understand.

**Some people won’t acknowledge the tongue in my cheek. Alas, asterisks.

First College Paper: My “Math Biography”

Math & Me

It’s an interesting task to look back on my life with the concept of math in mind, or, more specifically, my relation to its practical use. Where do I begin our story? I’ll try skipping ahead two years after my birth. A quirky kind of geometry found its way into my life when I developed a love (some of my family members would say addiction) for playing with Legos. No one appreciated the form, integrity, and color-coordination of a sound Lego structure more than I did. Indeed, solidarity, efficiency, and symmetry in all of its forms were values I upheld in my conventional practice of building Legos. Learning the individual pieces like words in a language, I began to build structures in my head before fitting them together on a more tangible plane. This catalyzed an appreciation for evenness and order. In retrospect, it’s almost humorous to see how alike my hypothetical creations were to Plato’s “forms”- perfect models of reality in my head. It was often frustrating to see their real-world manifestations. Admittedly, I had to come to terms with the odd, seemingly irrational pieces that caused me such grief. The 3x2’s, and the 3x3’s were rarely a help to my code of simplicity. The fact that a thick piece was equal to three thin pieces vertically stacked was frustrating for me. It was here I learned to pick my battles with math- something the law has forbidden me to do in my former years.

Reaching the peak of my abilities at the age of five, I specialized in the engineering of aircraft. Well, theoretical aircraft anyway. Using my father’s knowledge of aerodynamics as reference, I became well versed in the necessities an object needs to take flight. Yaw, pitch, and roll became my guiding principles as an engineer. My creations would have suppositional control over every axis necessary in our three-dimensional world. One can imagine how dumbfounded and frankly, a bit angry I was when I saw the Millennium Falcon take flight in “Star Wars.” It had no wings, no tail (not to mention that goofy sidearm cockpit and satellite dish), and I was supposed to believe this thing could take atmospheric flight? Even though I had quite a valid response to the Millennium Falcon, especially for a boy of five years, it was from about then on that I let math or its affiliates seem to get the best of me.

I recall a time in kindergarten where I proudly declared that I could actually count to the very large number of 100. Not a year had passed before I realized what in the past I had only suspected: counting to 100 required a methodology not unlike counting to 200, 300, or even 1,000. One just had to start over, in a sense, every time they reached an interval of 100. I finally knew how all the other kids did it. Thankfully for anyone who might have been standing around me at that point, I never actually took the time to count to 1,000, but, indeed, I knew just how to go about it. Around this period of my life, I learned the formal practice of addition and subtraction. They were simple enough. Multiplication and division, however, required a bit of effort. Once numbers of multiple digits came into this picture, I was very frustrated. Perfecting the art however, I moved on to 5^th grade where I learned of the daunting fraction. Applying the facets of division, I could grasp the concept well, but putting it to use was a struggle for me. Eventually understanding it, I thought my knowledge in arithmetic to be thorough. Then middle school happened.

Math in middle school and high school were little other than troubling for me. I feel as though algebra and I are still mere acquaintances, holding a small conversation from time to time, but never quite reaching a deeper understanding of each other. Geometry is like an old friend who’s changed. We have a few kicks here and there. It’s easy for us to reminisce about the good old days of shapes and sizes. Occasionally though, it requires me to exercise in its “proofs,” or worse, I have to be third wheel when geometry and algebra decide to partner up like they often do. Usually, I would walk away with this thought in mind, “When it’s not simple, it’s not fun anymore.” But here I stand at the forefront of my education ready to make it simple. With the hopes of finally learning the challenging dialects in the language of math, I turn to my college education. So I may have a comforting intelligence like I once did, happy with a pile of Legos in my lap, please, teach me.

Through the Veins of History…

It was way back in 2001. Kazaa had picked up where Napster left off. I would often go through our family’s library of 200-some tracks on our high-capacity Dell computer. This was a dwarf compared to anybody’s library now. It was like a semi crash course in Rock ‘n’ Roll and, also, somewhat of an index to my dad’s musical history. He acquired a lot of songs reminiscent of his childhood and young adulthood. At one point, he showed me a certain piece called Telstar by the Tornadoes, which was a 1962 #1 hit written in honor of a communications satellite launched that same year.

My dad recalled how futuristic and “space-age” Telstar sounded at the time. Nine-year-old Dad would listen to it on his radio in awe at the otherworldly distortion behind the instruments and the rocket-like sounds at the beginning and end of the song. (However, the harp in the verses is really what did it for him.) The song, although pretty and melodious, sounds a bit cheesy by today’s standards, especially with the unwelcome “aaah’s” at the last chorus. Indeed, we found a lot of humor in those.

As it turns out, Telstar, or maybe The Tornadoes more specifically, have held a bit more significance for me than just this important song of my father’s childhood. Believe it or not, The Tornadoes’ rhythm guitarist, George Bellamy, had a son, which, I’m sure you’ve guessed, is Matthew Bellamy. Matthew Bellamy, which I’m sure the five-some people who read my blog know is the frontman to my favorite band Muse.

When I found this out, things started to make sense. Without a doubt, one can hear how much of a tribute Knights of Cydonia is to Telstar- the galloping rhythm, the chords in the verses, and even the lead guitar have some pretty strong resemblance to its predecessor. Although this is the kind of thing that might come off as a tad tedious for some people, I find it to be a rather remarkable discovery. Truly, a great coincidence for me and worth celebrating.