As previously mentioned, I took an ornithology class this one time. Since learning the art of birdwatching, I have been more than eager to share with anyone and everyone my newfound hobby. I assumed that at least a few of my friends would find this avian activity to be at least fractionally as fascinating as I have. And so, I tell nearly everyone. And this is what I have discovered:

No one really cares.

The overwhelming response to the joy I developed through birdwatching has been some form of derision or weirded-out disdain. From, like, everybody. Despite the mockery, I have not been crushed; I just keep telling myself that you’re all jealous. [And you are.]

However, while I have developed this recent obsession with birds, my birdwatching jaunts have been informal at best this semester. This is, in part, due to the ever-present weight of academia, but also, I believe, because the drive is gone.

While I was taking ornithology, finding and identifying birds was a competition between myself, my classmates, and the birds, regardless that the latter parties had no idea they were competing. With guidebook and checklist in hand, I would march into the Arkansan morning, senses alert to the slightest sight or sound. Through forest or swamp or meadow, I sought birds with a driving motivation similar to card games or competitive sports. I wanted to conquer nature.

I think part of the appeal is that this adrenal hunting instinct I experience is so starkly juxtaposed with the concept birdwatching. To most, I think the idea of going out and watching birds at daybreak is far from a thrill-ride. Birdwatching is more likely perceived as being at harmony with the earth, some grand escapist nature world. And don’t get me wrong—birdwatching can be calming and meditative. But I found it far more enjoyable to turn ornithology into a game of sorts. Man versus bird.

That drive is not present anymore. While I could go discover another species, there is no checklist, no classmates, and no great competition. It was the driving chance of discovery that made the time worthwhile. Now, I casually identify birds alighted on the side of the road, longing to join them in the wild and experience that subtle thrill.

All this to say, I plan to start over. All former checklists and discoveries I will put aside and begin from square one in an effort to recreate a sense of drive in birdwatching. There are somewhere in the neighborhood of nine hundred different species of birds in the United States; hopefully, that will last for a good long time as I begin a running total of birds identified. Through this, I can hopefully engender an underlying, lifelong sense of competition.

And I’ll be sure to keep everyone up to date on how many I find. Because I know you’re all so interested.

Along with many of my friends and associates of the class of 2010, I have been indulging in the seemingly obligatory nostalgia of our Freshmen year at Harding. Such remembering must include at least one phrase akin to “Man, we are so old,” or “Dude, that was such a long time ago.” Deep down, I know it was not that long ago, but I am compelled by Seniordom to embellish the reminiscence thusly.

One aspect of my Freshman year that has all but disappeared is my time spent on campus proper, known colloquially as the Front Lawn. During that first year, a group assembled daily at a particular spot equipped with quilts, homework, and every intention of doing no homework. I cannot begin to estimate the number of hours spent lounging on the Front Lawn during the first few months of college. Sadly, that time has all but disappeared. I now cross my old stomping grounds with hardly a second thought.

While waxing nostalgic with a friend the other day, I recalled a memory of the Front Lawn I had all but forgot:

One Autumn evening, a large group was playing Sardines on the Lawn. During one round, my eye caught the “It” person duck behind a row of shrubs near a very illuminated building. Running to the building, I launched over the shrubs to join the sardine. Imagine my surprise when, instead of a friend lying on the ground, I stared into the face of a ninja.

I have always been somewhat confused by the recent appeal and chic of ninjas. Along with pirates, I have never quite understood why those violent, extinct subcultures have been so idolized, especially in some corners of the Internet. I suppose, reminiscing further, I was once a ninja for Halloween, but that was the extent of my fascination. I soon moved on to Spiderman or something else.

Several seconds of silence expired as the ninja and I gazed into each others’ confused eyes. Aside from mild surprise, barely recognizable through the slit for his eyes in his black cowl, he betrayed no emotion or identity. With a lithe jump, he sprung from all fours to a powerful stand, then agilely leapt over the bushes into the darkness towards the dormitories.

I remained on the ground for some time, trying to process what had transpired. I had encountered a ninja. And he spared my life. Rejoining the game, I mentioned my meeting to several friends, none of whom believed me. However, some rounds of Sardines later, my sighting was confirmed.

In the blink of an eye, four or five ninjas appeared, running swiftly from between buildings and converging upon a couple enjoying their evening on a swing on the Front Lawn. They seized the male of the couple and carried him away, depositing him unceremoniously in a bush before instantly scattering. I watched this entire sequence occur several times, often to the same couple. My comrades also stared in wonder and fear—there were ninjas at Harding.

I never discovered the identity of the Harding ninjas, nor did I understand their agenda in disrupting the blossoming romance of the Front Lawn. However, filled with a blend of nostalgia and mischief, I am resolved that I must take up the shadowy mantle of these mysterious predecessors. My roommates and I are determined to revive the Harding ninjas.

If anyone is interested in joining our shadowy ranks, let me know. Details to come.

There was a time—a long time, in fact—when I was prone to complain about the education I was receiving, particularly because I judged that my classes were irrelevant or mundane and so on. In part, this was true. Many of my classes through high school and even a few here at the collegiate level have been, as objectively as I can say this, a waste of time.

However, I will admit to being too harsh of a judge on this matter. I have come to appreciate my eclectic education, realizing that the core curriculum and liberal arts foundations have my best interests at heart. I am now convinced that most my complaints stemmed from my plain and simple disinterest in some subjects. Any attempt to be a martyr to a bad education system I now admit was immaturity on my part.

Quite thankfully, my myopic views of specialized education have been expanded greatly. As I take a look at the past few years, I realize just how broad my academic interests have grown during my time at Harding. The electives represented on my transcript are quite diverse, which pleases me. Though I would not purport to be a full-fledged Renaissance man, my education has not been limited solely to musical studies. In fact, nearly every semester has contained at least one class than I never would have expected to take in college.

And so, a smattering of my eclectic education at Harding University:

BHIS 342—Old Testament Archaeology
Fall 2009

I have never aspired to be one of those torch-wielding explorers of the Near East, but excavating Arkansas is proving to be quite exciting. Harding’s Honors College has constructed an elaborate recreation of a bona fide archaeological dig in the ancient Arkansan wilderness. Yesterday, as I knelt by a partially excavated stone wall, dust and heat swirling all around, I nearly forgot where I was. The authenticity and exotic premise of the course should be very inspiring this semester.

POLS 202—International Relations
Fall 2009

This course is definitely one of those I never anticipated taking in college. My political know-how and global interest was near nothing when I entered Harding, but after a semester overseas I realized the importance of world citizenship. Though I may never utilize IR in any professional field, I want to take responsibility and be informed on how the world works.

BIOL 314—Ornithology
Summer 2009

When it comes to somewhat obscure knowledge that I somehow acquired in college, birdwatching is the quintessence. Before this Summer, birds were birds; now, I cannot help but notice them wherever I go, as if they are all my friends following me around. Two weeks with binoculars took me from being an ignorant, science-scorning skeptic to an amateur ornithologist, and as birds are practically everywhere, I believe this skill will remain with me for most of my life.

HNRS 205—Human Situation III
Spring 2008

I hardly know where to begin. I am not a scientist, mathematician, or anything remotely close, and taking this course ran the entire gauntlet. From computer programing to chaos theory to math logic, my mind was forcibly stretched into a realm that was incredibly foreign. Memorable highlights of the course include creating an arcade game and a science fair in which we proved a hypothesis we knew was false.

COMT 202—Stage Combat
Spring 2007

I had no business taking 19 hours during my second semester of college. It was just stupid. However, despite taking many necessary and important academic courses, my favorite was the one that involved swordfighting. Twice a week, I would learn how to create mock battles, throwing fake punches for an hour and a half. During a semester of great stress, this was just what the doctor ordered. Through the course, I learned a great deal concerning the art of fighting, including history of weapons and the basics of fencing. Though I have not yet completed college, I would wager that no other course will have me crawling on the ground and punching another man during my final exam.

It has been a good three years at Harding.

Feel free to share about your unorthodox classes.

I.
Am.
A.
Failure.

It is apparent to me that the Aught-Nine Booklist will extend far beyond the intended twelve month range. I egregiously overestimated the amount of time I would have this Summer to dedicate solely to reading. I am severely disappointed in myself, but I can take meager consolation in this: first, that I have not given up on this goal entirely, and second, that I have a concrete list that I am resolved to finish, even if it takes longer than anticipated.

For those you who have been following my progress, I apologize for letting you down over the past few months. Here is my limited progress:

———

1. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
2. Between Heaven and Hell by Peter Kreeft
3. The Naked Voice by W. Stephen Smith
3.5 The Longest Day by Cornelius Ryan
4. The Hunt For Red October by Tom Clancy

This was my first foray into Clancy’s genre. Okay, I take that back; I started Red October a few years ago, but never finished. Having completed the work, and assuming it is representative of Clancy, I have a few likes and dislikes.

Throughout Red October, I was very convinced. I know nothing about military protocol or naval technology, but I was very quickly and persuasively brought into the world of the Cold War. Additionally, the vast number of minor characters lent authenticity to the situation, somehow bolstering the story with their cameos. However, the technobabble and minor characters, as convincing as they were, often became a literary quagmire between me and the plot. All in all, I enjoyed the novel, but Clancy is not exactly my style.

5. The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
6. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

To accommodate my personal research for Harding’s upcoming homecoming musical, Scrooge, I have moved this selection up the list.

7. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
8. ?
9. ?
10. ?
11. ?
12. ?
13. ?
14. ?
15. ?
16. ?
17. ?
18. ?
19. ?
20. ?
21. ?

Here at the end of the Summer, I have begun the daunting task of searching for and comparing graduate schools. In hopes of finding a school and a postgraduate program that is a perfect fit, my sundry criteria have included scholarship opportunities, standard of living in school locations, distance from opera companies, distance from home, and others. However, one aspect of my search that is rather subconsciously kicking to be the most important detail of my quest: heat, or rather a lack thereof.

I have often commented to my friends [or anyone who will listen] that one of my goals in life is to “never be hot—ever again.” This is typically met with overwhelming doubt, and rightfully so. The desire to never be hot is up there with hopes of never encountering a bad hair day, car trouble, bad phone reception, stains on white shirts, a rotten hand in Spades, or annoying commercials—almost impossible to avoid. I have failed my goal several times, yet I continually renew my hopeful commitment to avoiding uncomfortable heat. Here is why:

For starters, I am hot-natured, or so it seems. Honestly, I believe all people are “hot-natured”; after all, humans are batteries of heat by design, right? However, I have noticed that my aptitude to avoid heat extends father than many others. My immediate instinct upon entering a room is to set the thermostat at around 50 to 60 degrees, hoping that Arctic-force winds will suddenly burst from the walls.

Why make an environment like a meat locker? Because, to me, it is a logical decision. When you feel uncomfortably cold, there are several alternatives including [but not limited to]: 1) more clothes, 2) warmer clothes, and 3) more warmer clothes. When you feel uncomfortably hot, options are limited: 1) remove clothes, which modesty often prohibits, or, 2) for the love, turn on the air. In terms of comfort, the utilitarian decision is to create a cold atmosphere and let the “cold-natured” people bring warm clothing. Problem solved.

More seriously, though, I believe that I am simply tired of overwhelming heat. The climate of Arkansas is to be described as temperamental at best; a cool day could be quickly followed by blistering misery without warning, though the latter is more common. Inescapable humidity is part of the deal in Arkansas, and for much of my life I assumed the misery to be the norm. Not true—there is sweet coldness waiting for me beyond the borders of this place. With the end of my Arkansan-housed education in sight, I am quite eager to escape the Sweatbox State.

And so, as I study up on grad school programs here and there, I find myself naturally favoring states outside of Dixie. When people suggest programs in Louisiana, Texas, or Florida, I automatically and unthinkingly label them as second string schools. Deep down, I know I should select my postgraduate on more important standards than the sweat factor, but it sure would be lovely to be cold for a change.

So, if you hear of a good school of music in Fargo, Anchorage, or Reykjavík, call me.

And the word of the day is:

Facefriend /’feɪs frɛnd/ n.
1. An acquaintance verified as a friend on the social networking site Facebook.
2. A “friendship” that exists solely within the confines of Facebook.

One of my most enduring Facebook group memberships is in the group “I Feel OK about Rejecting Friendship Requests,” which I joined shortly after signing up for Facebook. Despite knowing good and well that only one in twenty-seven people will ever read through all of my Facebook groups, I want as many as possible to know that I am still the master of my social sphere.

For a while, rejecting friendship requests was enough, but inevitably I would receive numerous requests from the same people, making me wonder if they would ever rest until I confirmed our Facefriendship. Sometimes, I would succumb, but typically I would endure the mind game of who would tire first. [As Facefriends rarely see each other, the person and I never had confrontation about the limbo Facefriendship.] To keep from rejecting the same requests, I ultimately allowed them to sit in my notifications queue for several months, effectively stymieing forty some-odd requests for most of a year. That’ll learn em.

But I tired of that game as well; I returned to the original strategy of confirming my companions and rejecting those questionable relationships. However, no amount of prudence and meticulous judgement has kept the circle comfortably small. As of this moment, I have 826 Facefriends and counting.

Considering everyone I know and consider close enough to warrant friendship, I have come to the undeniable conclusion that I have far too many Facefriends. Even if I factor in family, classmates from high school, and various other far off acquaintances, there is simply no way that I have 826 close friends. Having long since abandoned any vain quest of assembling as many Facefriends as possible, I suggest a new tack:

Ladies and gents, please join me in celebrating the first annual International Facefriend Elimination Day.

The holiday, celebrated on on the fifteenth of July [or the fifteenth of any month, for that matter], is a time to celebrate the legitimacy of friendship and throw off the inane social pressures exerted by a glut of technological indoctrination. To participate, locate your Friends list on Facebook and eliminate any Facefriends you chose.

This seems cold, I know, but trust me when I tell you that there is hardly a more liberating cybersensation than to bid adieu forever to a person or two that you have not spoken with in your entire life. The beauty of this process is that Facefriends will never know of their removal from your list; therefore, on the off chance that you actually encounter the person in what we call “the real world,” you can still remain wonderfully cordial.

Now, if you enjoy your feeds being inundated with trivia about people whose names don’t ring a bell in the slightest, feel free to abstain from celebration of this novel holiday. [I mean, I can totally see the appeal...] As for me, I will gladly take one more step in reclaiming my humanity from “The Book.”

If you missed July 15th, don’t worry—another glorious IFED is coming your way next month! Happy International Facefriend Elimination Day, everyone!

Did you know that there is a Searcy, Arizona?

I didn’t think so. That’s because there isn’t.

Last weekend, I decided to buy some shoes online. This is significant for a couple of reasons. Firstly, because I buy apparel about as often as Halley’s comet pays a visit. Secondly, despite the fact that I have grown up with the Internet, I still do not entirely trust online transactions. Because of these things, buying shoes online spooks me slightly, but I bit the bullet this weekend and got me some shoes. Good for me.

However, this process was complicated for a number of reasons. My initial attempts to purchase the aforementioned shoes failed, apparently due to incorrect card information. Even after meticulous reexamination of my card, I could not find any discrepancies. I unhappily resigned to contact my bank the next day to find the problem.

The next morning, I had a realization: I put in the incorrect address, because this card was registered to my Harding box, not my house. After correcting the billing and shipping address to Harding’s address, the order went through. Huzzah.

Shortly after, I was contacted by Visa fraud prevention services. According to their records, I had ordered five pairs of shoes instead of one. Apparently, though my transactions had failed due to erroneous address, the card still registered on Visa’s radar. The Visa guy told me that I should probably contact the company just to be certain that only one pair of shoes had been purchased.

By this point, I am regretting my decision to buy shoes in the first place. I would rather go barefoot for the remainder of my days than run a wild goose chase over the phone. However, I decided to agree with the Visa guy. As I pulled up my order confirmation e-mail, my eye caught something strange. Moments later, I realized in horror that my shipping address read Searcy, AZ.

For those of you who are wondering how my finger somehow slipped so far as to type a “Z” instead of an “R,” it was a dropdown menu. This does not change the fact that I am an idiot. By the time I realized the full measure of my egregious blunder, it was 5:20 and I could not contact the company until the next morning.

So, basically, I ordered four pairs of Sperrys to Alex in Searcy, Arizona.

I think the moral here is to scorn vanity. Or learn what state you live in.