One of the things I found in England is that I'm not very good at joining crowds. Even in the politest country in the world, on the stereotypical easy-going backpacking through hostels trip, I had trouble easing myself into crowds that were hanging out at pubs or hostels. And these were crowds that I wanted to join, at least to hang out, but somehow couldn't manage to make it happen. And I can't blame the language barrier (although to be fair, in Scotland some people tried to talk to us at a bar and my brother and I had no idea what the hell they were saying). Then again, any large crowd usually has lots of smoking, which will send me running.

    On the other hand, there are crowds that many of my friends join that I'm still resisting, like LiveJournal. More and more of my friends around Williamstown seem to be joining it, and I know if I joined then some of them would read what I wrote. But I have enough trouble updating this page regularly, as you no doubt have realized. Would I then start focusing on that page and forget about this? It's not as if overly many people read this page aside from you, Dear Reader.

    But it is mine, and it's nice to write in something that I know is mine and not somehow controlled by a large unseen entity. Besides, at least you're reading this now. Dear Reader, I would not abandon you. Dear Reader, do you find that being addressed is a bit unsettling? Granted, I know you're reading this, and you know that I know you're reading this, but to bring it up seems somehow...Austentatious. Anyway, for now I'll continue writing here, and you, Dear Reader, can continue to read my posts, and the folks on livejournal will not, and such is the way of things.

    Probably the biggest crowd event I recently missed was Mother's Day-- I didn't call my mom. I emailed her just to say boo, but I figured she'd be busy with my grandmother anyway, and it's not important.

    Well, she was peeved. Largely. (I know, I'm the only one surprised.) For some reason, this irritatingly fabricated holiday created just to sell cards and flowers has some special significance to her. Which struck me as odd given how she dealt with other holidays in my childhood; she would routinely move birthdays or Chanukah or any holiday that was inconveniently timed. We used to joke about Christmas in July. Me, I'm not much a believer in holidays in general. Especially ones that generally revolve around some sense of obligation, which seems to be at least half of them. Just one more thing with a mass of people doing something that I don't feel part of, and I'm not sure I want to. With the exception being Chinese food on Christmas, but hey, we all have our indulgences.

    On an unrelated note, the other day I was looking at news headlines and dashing off parody songs. Sadly, neither of them turned out funny enough. I posted one on Leth and Sex, and the other I was hoping to submit to a paper, but upon re-reading it for a third time, I didn't think it was strong enough, even after revising. The structure is just too flawed. However, lately I've been feeling like I always think of clever things and throw them away before anyone sees them, and isn't that sad? I know, perhaps they seem better as lost works of genius than they will as mediocre parodies on paper. But many people have perceptions of their own work like that. I guess I should just join the crowd.

"Blair!" (to the tune of "Hair!")

We ask him why...he felt the need to lie
Inventing all his quotes, in what he wrote.
From other news he borrowed,
But don't ask him which; don't know!
He plagiarized his way
To a higher pay, in papers!

I want a job like Blair, bold treacherous Blair!
Jayson, chasin' countless fabrications.
Now unravelling Blair,
Never travelling Blair,
Here Maryland, There Cleveland, but it was all from New York!

Blair! (Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair)
Fake it, Cake it,
Long as people take it from Blair!

Let me follow his course and steal from every source,
And I'll show no remorse just like Blair.
One more stolen source, and still no remorse,
From what we have heard, there ain't no words
For the fraud, the deceit, the deception that was

Blair! (Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair)
Lying, Trying,
For more fame he was vying, that Blair.

And he stole names, words, facts and concepts,
Info, photos, places, faces,
Plagiarized from other papers
Then invented tough-breaks, heartaches.
This slime at the New York Times, wrote a lot of copy
But the facts were sort of sloppy
Finally someone said this must stoppy

O-oh, Say can you see what he wrote,
It's the mayor, yet he gave no quote.
He didn't do interviews,
Yet came through quotes in slews;
Did they write themselves?

His lack of facts caused small commotion,
Yet he kept getting promotions
For in-depth, insightful, invented reports from Blair.
And what he didn't make up himself,
He copied from some paper's shelf.
Now that he resigned, let's hope it's done,
And that we won't have another one of

Blair! (Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair, Blair)
Mired, Fired,
Let's hope he stays retired, Jayson Blair.