My reluctance spawned from a preamble of marred experiences with Rand, the first of which occurred in elementary school. The backstory is this: Accelerated Reader, a computer program which allowed students to read a book of their choice and then take a computerized multiple choice test for points on a sliding scale, was a staple of my reading homework throughout 3rd, 4th, and 5th grades. Most of us struggled towards our 50 point goal with age appropriate books in five to ten point increments, a feat involving months of work. Rand ruined this achievement when a classmate of mine, after falling behind on his reading, completed the Spark Notes for Atlas Shrugged, took the test, and despite a near failing percentage, received his “partial credit” 50 points in one fell swoop. It was absurd. I was angry jealous.

My second contact with Rand occurred during my freshman year of college (a significantly more appropriate venue) when my roommate told me that The Fountainhead was one of the best books he had ever read. While such a recommendation would usually be cause for an emergency trip to the library at the first available moment, at the time there were a number of things we did not see eye to eye on, and so I took it as a clear sign to avoid the book at all costs. I mentioned it to my mother, and discovered she had read the book at the suggestion of my uncle but thoroughly disliked it, I felt justified in my opinion that The Fountainhead held nearly no redeeming value. I later became great friends with that roommate, but never gave the book a second thought. Until…

My third contact with Rand. It occurred about a month ago. My current roommate told me that none of the characters in The Fountainhead were likable and that I should read it precisely because of that. He went on to say that it had yielded him some of his most interesting book discussions. This, combined with the ample book reading time provided by my daily train rides, made the decision, despite my past complications, a no brainer. I started it that day while doing laundry. A week and 800 pages later, I was finished.

It’s one of the most thought provoking books I’ve ever read, with a number of opinions on the creative process and what it means to be a creative individual with integrity. I’ll probably continue to refer to it in future posts, but for now I’ll just say go read it. The old cliche holds true; you can’t judge a book by its cover, whatever that cover may be. Learning by experience is the only way to have an original opinion.

In the days of stage coaches, travel from destination to destination was an investment. One would ride for hours or even days, often sharing the coach with a stranger or two. The duration of the trip encouraged conversation and friend-making, and benches were placed opposite each other, both for economy of space and to accommodate this social need. The practice carried over into the design of early train cars without too much thought, but it soon became apparent that with the reduced travel times and the advent of the commuting worker, the obligation to meet and greet ones traveling companions had changed from an effective way to pass time to an awkward, stressful, an unnecessary social convention.

Enter William Henry Smith.

Smith decided to sell newspapers and books to commuter travelers, providing an entertainment which excused all obligations of social interaction. He opened a store in the Euston train station which would become W H Smith, the modern day English equivalent of America’s Borders or Barnes & Noble.

Amazingly, 150 years later, the effects of the railway/book boom are still evident in the New York subway system. And while the mode of entertainment has moved towards digital alternatives like the Kindle, iPod, and Nintendo DS, the old fashioned book still holds its own. 45 minutes at a time, I’ve had more time to pleasure-read than I have at any time since the middle school read-a-thon in which I logged upwards of 100 hours over a summer. It’s amazing. At the same time, social interactions on the subways are scarce and transient. Most of the time they involve crazies, beggars, or entertainers. A genuine connection beyond these bounds is a rarity, sacred and deserving of special notice.

As the train emerged from the underground, large fat flakes of snow caught the lights outside the window and drew my head up. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I exhaled, only then realizing that I had been holding my breath. “Yes,” the woman offered. We sat in silence. As the train doors closed I turned back. “That’s a large book,” she said. “Yes, do you know it?” She smiled “I love it. It…” Her accent trailed off as she reached for the word, her eyes lighting up as she grasped it “…provokes.. thought.”

Before she left she gave me a gift, “If you like it you should read Paulo Coehlo. c-o-e-h-l-o.” “Thank you,” I replied. “Goodnight.” “Goodnight.”

Her name was Dana. I remember her voice, but not her face.

WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK – not my idea of a good start to the morning. But then I was gifted a radio/music alarm and I was able to start my day with music. This was so much better. I think it happened right before I went to college; the details are fuzzy. Funny thing though, I can still remember most of the wake-up songs I’ve listened to over the years. It takes a special song to withstand the day in, day out abuse of being listened to, particularly once further burdened with arousing my morning state of wakefulness. It’s an arduous assignment, so when a winner is found, I’ve tended to stick with it for as long as I can stand it.

Currently I wake to Uncommon Ritual, a beautiful Christmas gift from my equally lovely sister. The title track of of the album, it is a recent release from a trio of self-established musicians Edgar Meyer (Bass), Béla Fleck (Banjo), and Mike Marshall (Mandolin). I highly recommend it to anyone who doesn’t mind music demanding their concentration.

I remember being introduced to Béla Fleck and the Flecktones in high school by my friend Katy, who lent me her four disk set and told me to listen to it all. I tried. I honestly did. But for a guy who listened solely to Dave Matthews Band and Coldplay, it was too much. I liked the first few tracks and then it got super weird and I quit on the second disc. I returned the CDs, thanked her, and merrily went on my way, back to digest sugary tones of pure pop.

And now I can’t stand the stuff, except in small doses. Tastes change.

It’s very close to changes in your food palate, really. As a child, I abhorred certain foods, well, beans mostly, lima, kidney, brown, white, or black-eyed. As I grew older either my taste buds wore down or textures became more important, because after years of patient perseverance from my mother I’ve found myself liking all sorts of foods I previously avoided. Flavors taste differently; I’ve become less enamored of sugars, and enjoy the previously bitter alternatives.

So it is with music. When I began college my musical horizons expanded. Although I believed I knew the definition of good music (doo-wop, and alternative pop), I began to listen, even force myself to listen to new music, whether I liked it at first go or not. And just as I avoided becoming a picky eater, I made musical discoveries, coming back to give styles another shot, even when my preconceptions yelled “stop”. Now, to be candid, I’ve still found the musical equivalent of brusslesprouts, a food I’ve yet to enjoy, but I’m the richer for it.

And now I find myself waking up to Uncommon Ritual, which is exactly what my wake up routine has become. How appropriate.

How do you wake up?

T-Shirt #1: Caribbean Soul

I honestly can’t remember how long ago I was gifted this shirt. It was either middle or high school, and probably a holdover from a some long gone Jimmy Buffet concert I never attended. It never “fit” but was always comfortable, and over the years, like most of my t-shirts, it’s become faded, worn, and ratty. Besides those facts, I love this shirt because it signifies the annual beach trip taken every year with my Mom’s side of the family. The beach has changed of the years (although in recent times we’ve settled on the Isle of Palms near Charleston, SC as a favorite) and has always been a wonderful way to relax, escape the technology tether of the internet, and focus on swimming, surfing, body boarding, music, reading, eating, and most importantly, family. It think the back of this shirt captures the essence of beach trips pretty fantastically.

My only reservation about this shirt would be that the alligators seem to be University of Florida fans for some reason or another. I suppose Kentucky Gators just wouldn’t seem as appropriate.

1. [a large number]
2. [negative adjective]
3. [article of clothing]
4. [another article of clothing]
5. [yet another article of clothing]
6. [positive adjective]
7. [positive adjective]
8. [body part]
9. [heavy object]
10. [adjective]
11. [negative adjective]
12. [embarrassing verb]
13. [positive adjective]
14. [positive adjective]
15. [article of clothing (plural)]

Awesome! Now you’re ready for the story…

For the past [a large number] years, my personal sense of fashion would have to be considered [negative adjective]. I could usually be found wearing an ill-fitting [article of clothing], an oversized [another article of clothing], and a fugly [yet another article of clothing], the combination of which I would have referred to as a/an [positive adjective] outfit.

Last year I participated in a/an [positive adjective] internship where I worked my [body part] off moving a/an [heavy object] from theatre to theatre. At the conclusion of this internship, I was told by a/an [adjective] woman that my personal sense of fashion was [negative adjective]. This made me [embarrassing verb] but in the end it was a [positive adjective] thing. Now I wear [positive adjective] [article of clothing (plural)].

Whew! Ok, I was going to keep going but that was harder than I thought it would be so I’m stopping now. But wasn’t that fun!?

I also just realized that Mad Libs played on the word ad-lib which is something I never caught back in third grade. Hooray for life’s little discoveries. But back to topic, and my intention with this post…

Since Louisville, my wardrobe has slowly begun to phase out the old sweaters, khaki pants, and T-Shirts of my past, and with them has gone a sense of personal history. Not a history bought, but a history gifted, won, and received over a long period of years. My wardrobe used to tell a story. Each of my shirts told a story. Now it just makes me look good. Or at least look better… ;P

And while I’m not complaining (I’ve even received a complement or two on the new look) I decided to create

THE T-SHIRT PROJECT

The Goal: To reflect on the clothes that have been left behind and preserve their story even though I’ve ceased to wear them.

What is it?

I’ll be bringing you one shirt per post, with photos of the front and back, and close-ups of the fun details. I’ll also share the story of how I came to own it, and the meaning it gathered over the years. It’s a big project, but I’m hoping to eventually get through all of my old shirts. If you have a shirt with a story I’d be interested in it too! Just let me know in the comments! And enjoy!

The reason I’m so delayed in this post largely has to do with the fact that for the past two weeks I’ve fully immersed myself in a world full of storytelling. No, not the world of theatre as you might think, but the world of video games! Okay, so the last storytelling post talked about video games too, but this is about a particular new game called Dragon Age: Origins, and the game world in which it exists.

“What!?  Video games aren’t about storytelling!” I can hear you say, and for the most part I’d tend to agree with you, but as I mentioned in my last post on the topic, occasionally a game comes along and defies the mode of “your mission is to kill as many of the evil guys as possible.” I mean, sure, all great video games have that in bundles too, but the great ones, in my humble opinion, have a great story to back them.

I’m happy to say that Dragon Age: Origins doesn’t disappoint. I’d become excited about the game when I read about it over two years ago, and had counted down the days to it’s continually delayed release date (which ended up being Nov. 4, 2009), but it wasn’t until a friend allowed me to borrow a couple of books by the game’s lead writer, David Gaider, (written as prequels to the game) that my excitement became an obsession. After all, how can you not be excited when the author writes acknowledgements to his books that look like this:

First off, a big thanks to my cheerleaders Jordan, Steph, Danielle, and Cindy. Without you I would not have persevered. Also thanks to my parents for being so certain that all those games would never lead to anything useful yet letting me get away with playing them anyhow. You encouraged my imagination, and that’s more important than anything. I will always be grateful to you both.

Thanks cannot be said without acknowledging the hard work that the Dragon Age team has put into bringing this world to ilfe. Each day I spend in the company of such visionary and creative people makes me more proud of what we’re creating. You guys have made my job that much easier.

Also, one last thank-you to BioWare for giving me such a fantastic opportunity, and for being the kind of game company that believes writing is something worth investing in.

[emphasis mine].

This guy has it all, a support network, a fantastic creative team to work with, and an infrastructure that believes in the importance of storytelling enough to invest in the game’s writing. I might be a little, no, make that a lot, jealous. But the results are a dynamite game that I’d recommend for every RPG fan out there.

One last note: BioWare has a history of excellence in role-playing games, and it’s because they understand that RPG fans value storytelling. It’s not just about what you do, but how you do it, and whether you care about the people you are working with. Sure it may not be irl (in real life), but it’s a great escape which, as Mr. Gaidin said, stimulates the imagination “and that’s more important than anything.”