Hmm... I'm not worried about Joe.

If you've been watching the World Series like I have (go Phillies!) or any other television right now, I'm sure you've seen the recent ads from John McCain's campaign which play every commercial break.



Since the recent debate, Joe Wurzelbacher has become a national superstar. Everyone knows about Joe and his recent ambitions to purchase a new company; an example of "average Joes" and the salt of the earth that makes up our nation.

Perhaps I'm the only one, but I'm sick of hearing about Joe. He'll be just fine whomever becomes president, and instead of being a beacon of the hard-working American and a representation of our national pride and spirit, he is a symbol of the petty politics we are continuously plagued by. If you are wondering what I mean, read this. He's not even a goddamn plumber. We should stop worrying about the average Joe and start worrying about the children, teachers, and the lies our politicians tell us to get elected.

Benjamin

Wonder's Abound

I've been dabbling in writing slam poetry for a little while now, and I thought since I have have been the poster child for the inactive blogger, I would post this poem I wrote as a back-up for my readings at Dante's Bar on Main Street in Frostburg a few weeks ago. I've always been fascinated by slam poetry and the process of verbalizing literature. To be honest, reading my works among a group of mostly strangers was a bit intimidating for someone who rarely shares even my non-spoken poems to have others read, but it was incredibly fun. I can't wait to do it again sometime.

This isn't a very good work, is hardly one of my best, and makes its point with a sledgehammer. Also, try to remember that this was written to be read verbally, not read in text, so some of the nuances of it are lost. At least that's what I tell myself...

"Wonder's Abound"
Benjamin Christensen

The wild eyes of a child are often ignored.
But when I see her eyes I can't help but smile
the biggest grin of any young man, stretched out to the point that I feel my face start to split.
A seed of the Earth, the product of millions
of years of human progression, embodied in the soul of a toddler.
Wonders abound.
But my heart breaks for the thought of where we have found ourselves at
when Lucy plays on the ground.
Five thousand young men will never smile again,
while their mothers weep of the greatest loss
they will ever endure.
American lives sacrificed for American pride.
We call ourselves superpower, reign supreme,
but maybe things aren't as they seem
when we allow those boys to perish in the pursuit
of a free world.
A world where we would be proud to call
home instead of living in fear,
accustomed to turning our heads.
A world where a young girl knows that her father's coming home to bed.
A world where our mothers don't have to hear their boys are coming home dead.
But I think of Lucy and I smile again.
I know that the world turns, and soon my brothers and sisters will be with me once again.
And I smile so widely as I thank them for their sacrifice,
because they will ensure my daughter of God's wild eyes won't be ignored again.
We will realize the perils of war, and the pain of a mother's tears flash and wash away our sins.
And, since the bounty of the Earth is embodied in the eyes, the heart, the soul of a child,
the free world is our world as wonders abound.

-Benjamin

P.S: For my few readers, I promise to more actively blog in the future. There has been a awful amount of stuff going on recently, and as does everyone, I have a copious amount of opinions on it. In short: the world's going to hell in a hand basket, but I'll elaborate later.

Metal Gear?!

With my return from Denmark to the United States, I had a few goals in mind. One of these goals was to borrow a PS3 from someone (Thanks Mike) and to obtain a copy of Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots, the final installment in Hideo Kojima's epic, spawning over 20 years of stealth-action games. I have played every game in the series multiple times, and relished each moment of knocking on the wall to distract guards, fighting Psycho Mantis by plugging in the controller to the Player 2 port on my PSOne, and enduring Raiden and Rose's sappy romance in the second "Solid" installment. I told some of my friends that this game would "consume my soul" if I did not play it in a timely manner; the waiting was nearly unbearable.

When Guns of the Patriots was announced a few years ago, I was ecstatic, although I did not realize at the time what a major pain in the ass it would be to get my hands on and play a copy of the game upon its eventual release. Namely, I had no earthly idea that Sony would have the gall to charge $499 (minimum) for its new system and that Nintendo would come out with an intriguing and original next-gen console. This, therefore, left me in a bit of a predicament when the game finally was released on June 12th. I had been back in the country for 2 days, and I had to find a PS3. Who, though, did I know, would blow 500 bucks on a overpriced miniature computer? I had two answers, my uncle, and my friend Mike. Now, my family's relationship with my uncle is a topic of a much longer and comical blog post, but my friend Mike came through in a clinch (although it took over a month for me to finally get my hands on that big black box).

When I finally got the PS3 and a copy of MGS4 from my local neighborhood Blockbuster, I loaded the game in tepidly-tempered anticipation. The hype from the previews and the sheer magnitude of the trailer videos, along with my previous experiences from the series, built up a nearly insurmountable level of expectation for this game, and honestly, I think that is what lead to its occasional failings. When any media, be it film, book or video game, is hyped and discussed as much as MGS4 was, it gives up a bit of it's soul to the jackals of the press, and therefore a bit of its original and untouched majesty.

Now, I don't want to put a label of negativity on the game itself, because it was absolutely a joy to play with its amazing visuals, highly-stylized-because-it-should-be storyline and dialogue, and unique gameplay (not to mention Raiden is no longer a bitch and instead is a total badass), but games hyped as "masterpieces" rarely are in the hands of the consumer, because they inevitably fail to live up to the apex of perfection painted by the media.

If I was intelligent, I would have avoided all mention of the game before I got my hands on it, instead of my strict "no spoilers" policy of refusing to peruse Wikipedia or any other informational site upon the games' release, but still viewing trailers and reading mainstream reviews. I knew what other people thought of the game before I started playing it, and that is not conducive to me forming my own, unbiased and unaltered, opinions about it.

As I attempt to set aside my preconceived notions of what Kojima's epic should have been like, I have come to the following conclusions: I dislike the fact that the game became more like a FPS or shoot-em-up while appreciating the ability of the player to make the choice to run through "guns-blazing" or play in the traditional stealth game tradition, I disliked the ending while appreciating its complexity (no spoilers here, folks, beyond telling you that you WILL be confused for a majority of the game), and I thought that the production was heavy-handed in use of cutscenes while basking in the sheer magnificence of the production values. There were no fatal flaws with this game, and with a second run-through, when I'm not trying to beat it as fast as possible to find out what happens, I will undoubtedly enjoy every heart-racing second of it.

The themes of destiny, power, Faustian science, and (dare I say it) love, shine through in the stylized dialogue (my father would retch in the background during some of the greater gems), but it's supposed to be that way. I think I was one of the few people that actually liked the dialogue and emphasis on role and destiny in Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of the Patriots, whose events take place just prior to the 4th game in the "Solid" series. Kojima and his team did an excellent job, but I think that the story could have been changed a bit to give it a bit more impact, but that's for you to decide for yourself. After all;

Choose your own legacy. It's for you to decide. - Solid Snake

Benjamin

Mr. Conductor Dead at 71

It's a sad time for stand-up fans. A legend of black humor, George Carlin, died on Sunday.



I remember watching Carlin as "Mr. Conductor" when I was a child, long before I was aware of his incredibly dirty, and hilarious, stand-up routines. I'm not particularly sure if I'll remember him as Mr. Conductor or as the foul-mouthed misanthropic comedian, but I'll watch such videos and smile, nonetheless.

His involvement in FCC vs. Pacifica Foundation was one of the first government moves towards open censorship of "indecency", and unfortunately Pacifica lost, but at least the issue was brought into the public eye. Perhaps with his death the issue of obscenity vs. indecency will be brought back into the forefront of public concern, and we'll move towards a more literal view of the First Amendment.

Benjamin

My Sister's Limited Wisdom

My sister occasionally has a moment in which she actually presents something worth examining in the music world, considering her normal tastes are less then palatable to me. Presenting Flobots:

This Denver hip-hop group released their new album, Fight With Tools, last October. The video is their new music video, "Handlebars", which is a decent example of the style present on the album. Their lyrics are, to say the least, politically motivated, and remind me vaguely to my old days of rocking out to The Battle for Los Angeles. Political dissension is fun, boys and girls!

Although their lyrics are a bit simplistic sometimes, and their samplings repetitive, they have a very enjoyable sound. I always think it can be difficult to properly merge hip-hop with rock sounds, and few actually do it well. Oddly enough, yet again, the track "Anne Braden" is the favorite of both Ann and I; it's a biopic of the civil-rights activist of the same name, and pulls you directly into her story of "a child of Mississippi, [who's] ashamed of it today". Fight With Tools is a decent example of the "popular" underground. I approve.

Thanks Ann.

Benjamin

Will it ever end?

Clinton Wins Puerto Rico By Overwhelming Margin

Oh, fack.

Benjamin

The Meat Market and Denmark's Debauchery

I meant to write this this morning with my perceptions fresh in my mind, but the sheer amount of alcohol running through my blood led me to be more interested in consuming whatever food was present in my room and passing out on the floor. Note: "Grillpølse med Ost" (Pan-sausage with cheese) wrapped in tortillas are fantastic drunk-food, but you will regret eating them at 7:30 in the morning when you sober up in the afternoon.

Denmark is a land of certain cultural ambiguities. Danes are shy people, insomuch that their propensity for rudeness among strangers is contingent on a more connected atmosphere among friends and family, so much that merely smiling at a person walking down the street will immediately belie your nationality (or lead that person to think you're drunk), but raucous laughter and good cheer is common almost immediately after introduction. I understand why they have a reputation of being cold, but its really an external chill.

This extends to conversational topics that people may find taboo in other countries, or in their ability to have no problem wearing extremely revealing outfits. Among first meeting many Danes, I am often asked within the first 2 minutes of conversation whom I am going to vote for in the United States presidential election, and whether or not I approve of George W. Bush. At the core of that chill, there is a open and unrestricted culture begging to be set out, and often is.

I think that this is exemplified by the nightlife, and by that I refer to Jomfru Ane Gade. Jomfru Ane Gade (or the "Virgin Anne Street", a misnomer; there is absolutely nothing virgin about it) is a circa 150 meter strip of Danish debauchery, where during the day the few restaurants attract a crowd of at most 50 people at any given time, while at night the bars and clubs transform "the Street" into a massive organism with hundreds upon hundreds of people. The Street, as I observed last night, can actually be likened to a single entity, the crowds of people either stagnant, or flowing from one side to another, making contact, either physical or emotional, regularly, and the sheer amount of people form a cohesive "unit" of partygoers and barhoppers. Aalborg, in its relatively small size, still attracts young and young-at-heart from Aarhus and Copenhagen to this small street of culture and nightlife.

I find Jomfru unique in my experiences in Denmark as a place where the self-placed cultural barrier between strangers breaks down, at least at night, to form a completely open social network. My obvious and sometimes distressing observation as an American that even the small-talk between a grocery clerk and a customer is non-existent seems to be irrelevant at the Street. Coming from a culture that I find is often too judgmental and cold despite our superficial social niceties, the openness and carefree attitude of Jomfru Ane Gade is refreshing, even though my visits to it often lead to my rapid intoxication and the resulting abysmally unpleasant hangover.

Last night was my last time that I will be able to visit Jomfru Ane Gade during my stay here in Nordjylland, and it is something that I will miss extremely. It is a representation of both the best and worst parts of human nature, and of Denmark's truly bright culture. Even I like to dance there, after a few drinks.

Benjamin

Old White Men

So, I checked again this morning, and to my joy, The Daily Show has returned from its temporary hiatus (at least from TheDailyShow.com and Indecision2008.com), and as always, has not failed to miss a step. What's on the menu today? John McCain's old as fuck.



Hilarious stuff. All joking aside, this concerns me, and I hope to dear god it concerns anyone else considering voting for him should Hillary "The Vamp" Clinton ("a zombie the rules the night and feasts on human flesh" - Colbert) win the nomination over Obama. As my civic duties are explained to me by the "Vote or Die" episode of South Park, "every election is between a douchebag and a turd sandwich" so therefore I tend to support the "least-worst" candidate in an election.

Hillary Clinton is a horrible candidate; I still can't get the taste of the GTA: San Andreas nonsense out of my mouth, where "she called media sex and violence "a silent epidemic" among children". Although I'm not going to re-argue the ridiculousness of this sort of statement, (BAD PARENTING IS A EXPLOSIVE AND AUDIBLE EPIDEMIC AMONG CHILDREN!!) I still cannot support a candidate that will publically support media censorship.

For this, I'd have to vote for John McCain if Obama were to lose the nomination, although it seems that Clinton thankfully has a snowball's chance in hell at this point. However, the "1200 page document of McCain's medical records spanned 2000-2008" makes me frightened as much as Obama or Clinton's security during the election (although I agree with Eugene Robinson of the Wash. Post being more concerned with Hillary's soul then Obama's life, with regards to her likening Obama to RFK, although the concern has crossed my mind more then once).

Any presidential candidate is taking a risk by running for office; it's in the job description, but someone who is not medically fit to adapt to the stress and rigors of the Oval Office desk should not be sitting behind it (FDR had polio and Kennedy had Addison's disease, two of the greatest presidents of all-time, but they also weren't 72 when they were going to take office.)

In the election that will never end, it seems like we're just getting started. That is if McCain doesn't break his hip.

Benjamin

My Amateur Cracking and Denmark's Broken Sunrises/Sunsets

In preparation for my departure from Denmark on the 10th, (that would be approximately 10 days and 6 hours from the time of this post) I have begun to become overly sentimental: for further example read my prior post. To fulfill this imaginary need, I have decided to throw "one last party", which I suppose is a misnomer as I haven't really thrown any parties here and have decided to drink primarily on my own and in large quantities.

Aside from moderation, I have also seemed to lack the ability to determine what's really important; this also applies to parties. Music, booze, perhaps some snacks and people (I suppose); these are what one would define as important to a party. I, however, have been spending the last 3 days attempting to create some sort of visual display combining my amateur technological abilities with music.

Visualizations of music have always been fascinating to me; I spend many hours listening to music both staring at a wall doing nothing, and at the simple EQ bars and waves installed along with Windows Media Player. As the bars and waves just weren't doing it for me anymore, I decided to venture further into the world 0f music visualization and downloaded a trial copy of WhiteCap, a program designed by SoundSpectrum, a company that is both incredibly good at making intriguing visualizers, and at making incredibly annoying yet weak trial restrictions. While the Warez community, I suppose, has exploded with the advent of p2p technology, and even Windows isn't sacred anymore, this program developer has created some way that seems to correct itself with licensing and reissue the pain in the ass "trial" message with any internet connection. Now, I'm not saying in any way that I am proficient enough with computers to say that my inability to counter this is abnormal, but that I actually spent 3 days trying to do so is whats abnormal. I should have just shelled out the 26 bucks, or actually, I should have given up after the first 10 minutes and use an iPod and computer speakers at the party.

Ultimately, and to admit this publically will probably lead to my jeopardy in court, I followed a suggestion and blocked WMP with my firewall to not allow the program to connect to the internet to check that it was, indeed, expired. Boo-yah. My party will now have an incredibly badass-looking display of visualization which is both unnecessary when 3 people show up to look at it, and led to my continued misuse of my time abroad.

Another thing of note: the Sun is broken in Denmark. No God-fearing country would allow the sun to rise at 3AM and set at 10:30PM, but apparently these Danish bastards I've hopelessly embedded myself with for the last ten months don't care about being "normal".

Really, this has no effect on my life, other then that it is significantly different from the continental United States, but I find it fascinating as well. I've always known that longitudinally extreme locations on the earth tend to have longer days/nights during the summer/fall seasons, but I did not expect the extremes that I have encountered here in Denmark. I certainly can't complain about this compared to the soul-crushing darkness that I encountered during the height of the winter months, but the amount of sun is slightly irritating to my delicate habit of going to bed at 5 AM, when combined with the fact that I have incredibly ineffective blinds.

Speaking of which, its 4:57, enough of this. Good night.

Benjamin

Why I'm Not in my Pictures

(Originally posted on Facebook.com, the complete time-sucking whore of a website. Although it seems strange to begin a blog with a note posted somewhere else, I suppose I am reposting it because the act of writing the note made me want to reenter the blogger scene. I realised, everyone is entitled to my opinion, and I've been depriving the world for too long. I do apologize that that this is an overly sentimental nod to my friends and a rambling reiteration of my wholly depressing ideologies that went completely off-track, and thus will have no relevancy to anyone else.)

As my first foray into Facebook notes, I am utterly irritated by it as a function before even clicking "publish" for two reasons: 1. My intended title for this was "Why I'm not in my pictures, why Denmark has changed my life, and why I'm not coming home", but apparently the application has an issue with long titles. Fantastic. 2. By typing Danish characters into this text box, Facebook decides it wants to send my browser back two pages. Also fantastic.

Be prepared for a deep, philosophical, exhaustively sentimental, and probably rambling note for your reading pleasure.

As I finally complete my final course work at Aalborg University, and I prepare for my ultimate departure from Nordjylland to return home, I have been spending some time reflecting on my time here. In particular, I have been pouring over my self-described amazing compendium of 1,483 photographs taken during the 279 days that I have lived in Denmark. In my constantly irrelevant but incessant self-analyzation and perpetual individual judgment, I have come to a few conclusions from my photographs (a picture, holds a thousand words. At 1,483 photos and 1,000 words, that would place my portfolio at 1.48 million. I'll spare you.) Out of nearly 1,500 pictures, I am present in slightly less then 50.

Now, obviously there is a logical and clear explanation for this: taking a picture of yourself is a major pain in the ass, and I am either A. too lazy, B. too shy, or C. too lazy, to ask a stranger to take a picture of me in front of the Reichstag, the Eiffel Tower, Amsterdam's Red Light district, or the Brandenburg Tor. Like any good and obnoxious tourist, however, I was quick to take snapshots of these monuments, that have been photographed exhaustively, with various lighting and effect, since God invented the tour bus and the youth hostel.

However, in my over-analytical style, and you wouldn't know who I was if I wasn't that, I will read something further into this. My presence in Denmark, my visits to Berlin, Paris, Amsterdam and København, and my experience as an American in Europe, has been superficial, temporary and, just like my photographs, marked by my detectable absence from any significant immersion. I am not a part of the photographs I have taken; I am an observer, a visitor, a face in the crowd seen only as deja-vu and dismissed just as quickly. (Why yes, Sharon, I did just quote Men in Black again.)

I would go farther to express the viewpoint to my life in general, and all life. Our existence is marked by a fleeting, infinitesimally short and relatively meaningless clusterfuck through the world at large.

You will make a change in someone's life, however, and ay, there's the rub: Dan will destroy the human spirit with the mere thought of a Ken Griffey Jr's Slugfest challenge, Erin will bring new meaning to the importance of a Happy Meal toy, Lucy Trettel, with a single smile, will turn a guy that hates children into someone that wants to adopt every kid on earth, and was pained to know that she had grown so much without him being there to see it.

Sharon will save the earth until we destroy it. James will encapsulate the human experience in a song. Gena will redefine James Joyce in a culturally significant fashion. Jamie will reduce a man to a boy in her absence and his failure to answer a phone call. I, will exist, until I no longer do so and the only thing remaining of me will be the pictures that I took that do not have me in them.

So sticking to my original thesis, as a good Danish student would (I failed Basic Danish by the by, because it is perhaps the stupidest language on Earth beyond the click-click language in Africa, but I digress), what have I learned from ten months in Denmark? The world is what you make of it; and more significantly, your world is the sum of the parts of your friends and family. Cherish every moment with the people you love, because ten months apart can seem like an eternity. I spent all summer last year counting down the days until I could board that plane, and I've spent the last 3 months counting down the days until I can board that plane one last time.

I will not miss Denmark, although I will miss conversations about my imperialist tendencies with Søren, my ambiguously homosexual hugs passed to Daniel, and moments of idiocy with Dianne, because that is what my life is. The connections I have made with people will not cease, even though my connection with the land of my father's birth and my grandfather's life will. I am not a Dane, and as much as I would consistently boast, I am not an American either. I am a human being, a subject of a photograph, celluloid and color.

As a final point, I want to express that I will not be coming home, because I'm already there. Home is not a state of mind; its not even where the heart is. Home is in your friends and lovers, your family, and wherever you share a room with someone with a drink and a smile. That's all it is, and wherever I go from now on, I will be at home.

Benjamin