I first put this mix together last fall. For the last couple days, I've been listening to classical music and soundtracks rather than, well, anything else, but I broke the "Concentration and Stuff!" reverie to listen to Sign O' The Times/Charming Populism and document the playlist here.
1. Simon & Garfunkel, "The Times They Are A-Changin'"
2. Bright Eyes, "You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will."
3. Arcade Fire, "Haiti"
4. Billy Joel, "Vienna"
5. Vienna Teng, "Augustine"
6. Belle & Sebastian, "Dress Up In You"
7. Death Cab For Cutie, "Why You'd Want To Live Here"
8. Jenny Lewis With The Watson Twins, "It Wasn't Me"
9. The Mudbloods, "A Pensieve Full Of Unrequited Love"
10. Marvelous 3, "Cigarette Lighter Love Song"
11. Barenaked Ladies, "The Flag"
12. The Get Up Kids, "Valentine"
13. Straylight Run, "Existentialism On Prom Night"
14. Fuel, "Shimmer"
15. Aqualung, "Brighter Than Sunshine"
16. Our Lady Peace, "Made To Heal"
17. Ben Folds, "Gone"
18. The Darkness, "English Country Garden"
19. The Beatles, "Don't Let Me Down"
You probably hate at least one of these songs. Neither the cat nor I care. She can sleep to it, I can work to it, and right now, that's all either of us are looking for.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
PC04: Self-Referential Musicians
Today, in the car, for no reason I can recall, I began listing all the solo artists and bands I could think of that named themselves in at least one of their songs. Scott is fairly tolerant and appeared amused, but for his sake, I eventually stopped and decided I should blog about it because HEY, why not?
Here are a handful of self-referential musicians, musicians that would conceivably reference himself/herself/themselves, musicians that would likely never reference himself/herself/themselves, and some hypothetical possibilities. All these lists could be much, much longer, but I don't want to bore you. I write this assuming you aren't bored already.
Also, you may notice I'm leaving rap artists off this list, due to how frequently this kind of thing occurs in rap music. Sorry, Kris Kross.
SELF-REFERENTIAL
Mika. In "Lollipop," Mika gives himself a shoutout ("Yo, Mika!"). Why? NO ONE KNOWS.
*NSYNC. "Here We Go" includes the lyrics "*NSYNC is here to make you people scream" and "Yes, yes, yes, here we go! *NSYNC has got the flow!" To this day, I'm not quite sure what that means.
Backstreet Boys. "Everybody (Backstreet's Back)," perhaps the strongest song on BSB's self-titled debut, seems to be about how Brian, Nick, Howie, Kevin and AJ returned from obscurity, which doesn't really make sense, considering it's the group's debut album. Millions of 12-year-old girls let it slide.
Cursive. "Art is Hard," a truly great song, includes the (presumably) sarcastic line, "Oh, Cursive is so cool!" This is probably the most ironic instance of self-reference listed here. What does that say about Cursive? I don't know. Let me know when you figure it out.
Aaron Carter. Half of Aaron Carter's songs I can remember (all four of them) mentioned him in their titles. That's right, their titles: "Aaron's Party (Come Get It)" and "Oh Aaron." "Aaron's Party (Come Get It)" is a trenchant commentary on the dilemmas pre-pubescent males face when left alone. Or something.
Jason Mraz. "Curbside Prophet," my favorite song on Mraz's debut album, asked the question, "What's up with M-R-A-Z?" The question remains unanswered.
CONCEIVABLY SELF-REFERENTIAL
Post-Pinkerton era Weezer. I used to love Weezer. Today, I love the idea of Weezer, but not the execution. And after hearing "Pork and Beans," I am convinced that Rivers Cuomo would have no qualms releasing a song that spelled "Weezer" at some point. And this is the only entry on this particular list, simply because it seems depressing to go on.
NO POSSIBILITY OF SELF-REFERENCE
Anything involving Ben Gibbard. Let's think about this: in "Styrofoam Plates," Gibbard sings, "There's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes, Death Cab for Cutie put it there!" Yeah, I just can't see it happening. Same goes for "I kissed you in a style Jimmy Tamborelli would've admired, both us members of the Postal Service thought it classic" in "Clark Gable."
The Doors, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd. Actually, if you play "Black Dog" backwards, all you hear is Robert Plant repeating the same thing he says to his mirror every morning: "Led Zeppelin is the greatest, best rock band that God has ever created on the face of this earth." (That's not true.) Jim Morrison was self-absorbed, but not to the extent of mentioning Ray Manzurek and himself during that WAY TOO LONG instrumental portion of "Light My Fire," and Pink Floyd is Pink Floyd. No need to elaborate there.
Billy Joel. I'd almost argue that "The Entertainer" is close enough to self-referential for Mr. Joel to jump up a couple lists. At the same time, I feel like he dislikes himself too much to use his actual name in a song. So that's that.
Hanson. I mention Hanson here because I find them to be genuinely talented musicians, and above self-reference. Great job, pseudo-boyband I still listen to!
HYPOTHETICALS
Bright Eyes covering "Total Eclipse of the Heart." That said, I really hope Conor Oberst sees this while drunk and decides it's an excellent idea.
Snoop Dogg covering Reel Big Fish's "Snoop Doggy Dogg." Meta!
Fin.
Here are a handful of self-referential musicians, musicians that would conceivably reference himself/herself/themselves, musicians that would likely never reference himself/herself/themselves, and some hypothetical possibilities. All these lists could be much, much longer, but I don't want to bore you. I write this assuming you aren't bored already.
Also, you may notice I'm leaving rap artists off this list, due to how frequently this kind of thing occurs in rap music. Sorry, Kris Kross.
SELF-REFERENTIAL
Mika. In "Lollipop," Mika gives himself a shoutout ("Yo, Mika!"). Why? NO ONE KNOWS.
*NSYNC. "Here We Go" includes the lyrics "*NSYNC is here to make you people scream" and "Yes, yes, yes, here we go! *NSYNC has got the flow!" To this day, I'm not quite sure what that means.
Backstreet Boys. "Everybody (Backstreet's Back)," perhaps the strongest song on BSB's self-titled debut, seems to be about how Brian, Nick, Howie, Kevin and AJ returned from obscurity, which doesn't really make sense, considering it's the group's debut album. Millions of 12-year-old girls let it slide.
Cursive. "Art is Hard," a truly great song, includes the (presumably) sarcastic line, "Oh, Cursive is so cool!" This is probably the most ironic instance of self-reference listed here. What does that say about Cursive? I don't know. Let me know when you figure it out.
Aaron Carter. Half of Aaron Carter's songs I can remember (all four of them) mentioned him in their titles. That's right, their titles: "Aaron's Party (Come Get It)" and "Oh Aaron." "Aaron's Party (Come Get It)" is a trenchant commentary on the dilemmas pre-pubescent males face when left alone. Or something.
Jason Mraz. "Curbside Prophet," my favorite song on Mraz's debut album, asked the question, "What's up with M-R-A-Z?" The question remains unanswered.
CONCEIVABLY SELF-REFERENTIAL
Post-Pinkerton era Weezer. I used to love Weezer. Today, I love the idea of Weezer, but not the execution. And after hearing "Pork and Beans," I am convinced that Rivers Cuomo would have no qualms releasing a song that spelled "Weezer" at some point. And this is the only entry on this particular list, simply because it seems depressing to go on.
NO POSSIBILITY OF SELF-REFERENCE
Anything involving Ben Gibbard. Let's think about this: in "Styrofoam Plates," Gibbard sings, "There's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes, Death Cab for Cutie put it there!" Yeah, I just can't see it happening. Same goes for "I kissed you in a style Jimmy Tamborelli would've admired, both us members of the Postal Service thought it classic" in "Clark Gable."
The Doors, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd. Actually, if you play "Black Dog" backwards, all you hear is Robert Plant repeating the same thing he says to his mirror every morning: "Led Zeppelin is the greatest, best rock band that God has ever created on the face of this earth." (That's not true.) Jim Morrison was self-absorbed, but not to the extent of mentioning Ray Manzurek and himself during that WAY TOO LONG instrumental portion of "Light My Fire," and Pink Floyd is Pink Floyd. No need to elaborate there.
Billy Joel. I'd almost argue that "The Entertainer" is close enough to self-referential for Mr. Joel to jump up a couple lists. At the same time, I feel like he dislikes himself too much to use his actual name in a song. So that's that.
Hanson. I mention Hanson here because I find them to be genuinely talented musicians, and above self-reference. Great job, pseudo-boyband I still listen to!
HYPOTHETICALS
Bright Eyes covering "Total Eclipse of the Heart." That said, I really hope Conor Oberst sees this while drunk and decides it's an excellent idea.
Snoop Dogg covering Reel Big Fish's "Snoop Doggy Dogg." Meta!
Fin.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
People Who Have Influenced Me Who Will Probably Never Know
First, a "Feel bad for me/proud of me!" note: I determined after last weekend that it's time for a change, both dietarily (which I've just decided is a word) and exercise-wise. So as of Sunday, I'm cutting back majorly on soda and making a point of exercising at least 25 minutes a day. The first two soda-less days were alright, but it turns out day three is a doozy, with a perpetual headache. But if that's what it takes, then, well, I'll take it.
Lately, and by that I mean the last two days, I've been thinking about what circumstances have shaped me into who I am now, and who helped along the way. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I may never actually interact with some of the people who have helped me the most, and I thought I'd make a list here. My internet presence is so minor that it's highly likely they'll never see this. But I'm OK with that; it's for my sake and yours.
Here goes it.
1. Chalene Johnson. This one may come as something of a surprise, unless you've been in our apartment and seen what's scrambled among the DVDs and Blu-Ray discs directly in front of our television. One of the DVDs that most frequently takes a spin is a collection of five workout sessions titled Turbo Jam. Turbo Jam is the invention of Chalene Johnson, a fitness professional who put together a program combining cardio, weight training, and ridiculous dance mixes (that she mixed herself!) in order to inspire people to exercise while having fun. If ever you see me and I'm in a decent shape, it means I'm on a Turbo Jam kick. I'm hoping this current one will be semi-permanent. Without these routines, I'd be much less motivated to exercise, and that's why I'm glad Chalene is around.
2. Chuck Klosterman. As is obvious by now, I'm an amateur pop culture writer, and my writing style wouldn't be nearly as developed without Chuck Klosterman and the books he wrote, particularly Killing Yourself to Live. He seamlessly blends personal narrative with critique and commentary on the quirkier aspects of our current pop culture climate, and in my mind, he does it better than anyone else out there. He makes me want to write beautifully, although he isn't the only one.
3. Noel Murray and, to a certain extent, the rest of the A.V. Club. Outside of iGoogle, I don't think there's a site I frequent more than the A.V. Club, the Onion's sister pop culture publication. There's no satire here. Instead, AVC is a compendium of reviews and perspectives on pop culture new and old. Here I've learned that it's possible to write beautifully about all mediums, television in particular. Noel Murray writes about both Lost and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and his Lost summaries are nothing short of fantastic, inspiring amateur analysis and sparkling discussion on a weekly basis. It's another key reason, beyond the obvious "Bye bye, second best show ever" reason, that I'll miss Lost when it's gone.
4. Jerry Spinelli. I could wax philosophical all day on why Stargirl is one of my favorite books, why it made me think about conformity in a radically different way, and how I don't think anyone could capture and analyze high school life so brilliantly ever again. But that's all I really have to say. This is a beautiful book, and it's not just a great read--it has a lasting impact I'm not sure you'll find anywhere else. I'd love to shake this man's hand.
Honorable mentions: Fiona Apple makes me want to express my emotions loudly and proudly, Nick Hornby taught me how to read ... again, and Rob Sheffield helped me to recognize that beauty can come from personal disaster.
That's all. I hope you feel the same about some others and give them some accolades for what they've done for you.
Also, this:
Love her.
Lately, and by that I mean the last two days, I've been thinking about what circumstances have shaped me into who I am now, and who helped along the way. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I may never actually interact with some of the people who have helped me the most, and I thought I'd make a list here. My internet presence is so minor that it's highly likely they'll never see this. But I'm OK with that; it's for my sake and yours.
Here goes it.
1. Chalene Johnson. This one may come as something of a surprise, unless you've been in our apartment and seen what's scrambled among the DVDs and Blu-Ray discs directly in front of our television. One of the DVDs that most frequently takes a spin is a collection of five workout sessions titled Turbo Jam. Turbo Jam is the invention of Chalene Johnson, a fitness professional who put together a program combining cardio, weight training, and ridiculous dance mixes (that she mixed herself!) in order to inspire people to exercise while having fun. If ever you see me and I'm in a decent shape, it means I'm on a Turbo Jam kick. I'm hoping this current one will be semi-permanent. Without these routines, I'd be much less motivated to exercise, and that's why I'm glad Chalene is around.
2. Chuck Klosterman. As is obvious by now, I'm an amateur pop culture writer, and my writing style wouldn't be nearly as developed without Chuck Klosterman and the books he wrote, particularly Killing Yourself to Live. He seamlessly blends personal narrative with critique and commentary on the quirkier aspects of our current pop culture climate, and in my mind, he does it better than anyone else out there. He makes me want to write beautifully, although he isn't the only one.
3. Noel Murray and, to a certain extent, the rest of the A.V. Club. Outside of iGoogle, I don't think there's a site I frequent more than the A.V. Club, the Onion's sister pop culture publication. There's no satire here. Instead, AVC is a compendium of reviews and perspectives on pop culture new and old. Here I've learned that it's possible to write beautifully about all mediums, television in particular. Noel Murray writes about both Lost and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and his Lost summaries are nothing short of fantastic, inspiring amateur analysis and sparkling discussion on a weekly basis. It's another key reason, beyond the obvious "Bye bye, second best show ever" reason, that I'll miss Lost when it's gone.
4. Jerry Spinelli. I could wax philosophical all day on why Stargirl is one of my favorite books, why it made me think about conformity in a radically different way, and how I don't think anyone could capture and analyze high school life so brilliantly ever again. But that's all I really have to say. This is a beautiful book, and it's not just a great read--it has a lasting impact I'm not sure you'll find anywhere else. I'd love to shake this man's hand.
Honorable mentions: Fiona Apple makes me want to express my emotions loudly and proudly, Nick Hornby taught me how to read ... again, and Rob Sheffield helped me to recognize that beauty can come from personal disaster.
That's all. I hope you feel the same about some others and give them some accolades for what they've done for you.
Also, this:
Love her.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Sunburn & Ass
I did a Panera run today, meaning I sat outside Panera and read Nick Hornby's Shakespeare Wrote for Money while eating lunch and sipping lemonade for about 30 minutes, maybe more, maybe less. I'm fairly certain my right arm got sunburned, but I'm not disappointed about this. It's my own fault, I accept the consequences, and honestly, my body seems to deserve a bit of sun after all this pesky winter.
I'm going to see Kick-Ass tomorrow with a couple friends of mine. I've been looking forward to it all week. The film looks to live up to its title and then some. It will feel about as strange asking for a ticket to Kick-Ass as it did The 40-Year-Old Virgin about four years ago. But I don't think it should.
As a Christian who has a fairly thorough understanding of profanity, I would like to express the opinion that I, in no way, find the word "ass" offensive. I think it should drop off the swear list immediately. Let's think about this: it's commonly used as a synonym for "butt." It's not crude like "f**k" or insulting like "b***h." It's simply a different noun, completely innocuous. Even when added to a word like "big," "bad," or in this case, "kick" it's no more offensive. I won't be embarrassed to announce that I'd like my over-priced ticket to Kick-Ass tomorrow evening, and you shouldn't be, either.
That said, Midna sat, transfixed, in front of the TV this past Tuesday during Lost. She didn't stick around for long, but you could tell she was totally into the Hurley subplot.
I'm going to see Kick-Ass tomorrow with a couple friends of mine. I've been looking forward to it all week. The film looks to live up to its title and then some. It will feel about as strange asking for a ticket to Kick-Ass as it did The 40-Year-Old Virgin about four years ago. But I don't think it should.
As a Christian who has a fairly thorough understanding of profanity, I would like to express the opinion that I, in no way, find the word "ass" offensive. I think it should drop off the swear list immediately. Let's think about this: it's commonly used as a synonym for "butt." It's not crude like "f**k" or insulting like "b***h." It's simply a different noun, completely innocuous. Even when added to a word like "big," "bad," or in this case, "kick" it's no more offensive. I won't be embarrassed to announce that I'd like my over-priced ticket to Kick-Ass tomorrow evening, and you shouldn't be, either.
That said, Midna sat, transfixed, in front of the TV this past Tuesday during Lost. She didn't stick around for long, but you could tell she was totally into the Hurley subplot.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Spring & Things
Now, yesterday, Scott and I were at the park, where we saw some extremely active ducks. Some sort of brawl was happening among two males and a female; it seemed that one or both of the males wanted to mate with the female, but she was having none of it. It was a bit car crash-like, in that it was at least a little painful to watch (I mean, she was getting brutalized!), but we couldn't look away. We also saw a muskrat and a nesting duck, and I renewed my title as Pooh sticks champion. Pooh sticks is a game in which you stand on a bridge over flowing water, drop a stick, and look to the other side of the bridge to see whose floats to the other side first. And I know how to pick 'em, stick wise.
The last couple weeks have been good, sometimes quite, even. I saw a good friend of mien for the first time since I don't know when, last summer, probably. Emily and I were on the same interim trip to the United Kingdom, and before that, we'd had a class together. Naturally, we only got to know each other on the trip. She, another traveler named Michelle, and I spent a great deal of time there together, but life has largely prevented us from seeing each other again. Today, Emily and I walked about her side of campus in the gorgeous beyond gorgeous March weather, talking about futures and childhood and quirks among the Calvin staff. The visit made my good mood better. I can't think of a time visiting an old friend didn't do that.
I've almost earned all the money I wanted to set aside for DragonCon, and even without full time work. I'm quite pleased about it, especially since it was just announced that one of my favorite Battlestar Galactica cast members (Aaron "Chief Tyrol" Douglas, for those keeping score at home) will be there. Oh, to be an unapologetic geek.
Ending blog entries is always perplexing for me. From now on, I'm going to end with a mini-anecote about Midna.
There's a certain kind of cat toy, a plastic ring with a ball inside it and slats in the ring so the cat can bat it around. Mid has one, and if we hide it for a couple weeks, then give it back, she goes crazy. One day, though, she had a different plan. The ring was in the middle of the room, on the floor. With purpose, Midna strutted over to the ring, struck the ball as hard as possible, and walked away.
All in a day's work, really.
The last couple weeks have been good, sometimes quite, even. I saw a good friend of mien for the first time since I don't know when, last summer, probably. Emily and I were on the same interim trip to the United Kingdom, and before that, we'd had a class together. Naturally, we only got to know each other on the trip. She, another traveler named Michelle, and I spent a great deal of time there together, but life has largely prevented us from seeing each other again. Today, Emily and I walked about her side of campus in the gorgeous beyond gorgeous March weather, talking about futures and childhood and quirks among the Calvin staff. The visit made my good mood better. I can't think of a time visiting an old friend didn't do that.
I've almost earned all the money I wanted to set aside for DragonCon, and even without full time work. I'm quite pleased about it, especially since it was just announced that one of my favorite Battlestar Galactica cast members (Aaron "Chief Tyrol" Douglas, for those keeping score at home) will be there. Oh, to be an unapologetic geek.
Ending blog entries is always perplexing for me. From now on, I'm going to end with a mini-anecote about Midna.
There's a certain kind of cat toy, a plastic ring with a ball inside it and slats in the ring so the cat can bat it around. Mid has one, and if we hide it for a couple weeks, then give it back, she goes crazy. One day, though, she had a different plan. The ring was in the middle of the room, on the floor. With purpose, Midna strutted over to the ring, struck the ball as hard as possible, and walked away.
All in a day's work, really.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Dead Duck Day
During today's bike ride, I saw the following:
A dead duck
And I decided he deserved an entry of his own.
The duck was on the edge of a parking lot next to my building. I figured at first that he'd been hit by a car. But then, given his position, that didn't seem so logical. His body was free of any contortion, his bill pointed slightly downward. His purely green head still shone in the sun, his wings were held tightly to his sides, and his feet were turned out the way only a duck's can be.
If he weren't quite so still, you might think he was only sleeping.
My guess is he choked on something, maybe a bit of a bagel that someone tossed out of the parking lot after finishing their meal, or maybe one of those apple cores I saw in the middle of the street, where someone didn't bother to leave it in their cupholder or somewhere else till they reached their destination. It doesn't really matter. The duck isn't alive anymore. Somewhere, some little guys may be missing him, or a female is wondering when he'll come home from work for the day.
I realize this is probably all too sentimental for something that simple. I'm no birder or anything like that, but the thing is, I really do like birds. Obviously, the most remarkable birds I've ever seen were in Hawaii. But just as likable for me are the ducks around the suburban area where I live. They seem content with racing across ponds both man-made and natural and eating the bread we're not supposed to give them.
In short, be kind to your fine feathered friends. You never know when someone will write a maudlin blog entry about the small tragedy of one mallard's demise.
A dead duck
And I decided he deserved an entry of his own.
The duck was on the edge of a parking lot next to my building. I figured at first that he'd been hit by a car. But then, given his position, that didn't seem so logical. His body was free of any contortion, his bill pointed slightly downward. His purely green head still shone in the sun, his wings were held tightly to his sides, and his feet were turned out the way only a duck's can be.
If he weren't quite so still, you might think he was only sleeping.
My guess is he choked on something, maybe a bit of a bagel that someone tossed out of the parking lot after finishing their meal, or maybe one of those apple cores I saw in the middle of the street, where someone didn't bother to leave it in their cupholder or somewhere else till they reached their destination. It doesn't really matter. The duck isn't alive anymore. Somewhere, some little guys may be missing him, or a female is wondering when he'll come home from work for the day.
I realize this is probably all too sentimental for something that simple. I'm no birder or anything like that, but the thing is, I really do like birds. Obviously, the most remarkable birds I've ever seen were in Hawaii. But just as likable for me are the ducks around the suburban area where I live. They seem content with racing across ponds both man-made and natural and eating the bread we're not supposed to give them.
In short, be kind to your fine feathered friends. You never know when someone will write a maudlin blog entry about the small tragedy of one mallard's demise.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
It's 70 Degrees Outside Today.
And for this reason, I simply had to go for a bike ride.
Bike rides are great for many reasons: it's exercise, it's actually enjoyable, you feel like you're flying when you hit a decline, et cetera, et cetera. One of the very best things is completely unrelated to movement, though, and that is the objects you see while you're riding.
Today, I spotted the following.
A child's glove (knit)
A rubber glove
Another rubber glove, about ten feet past the first
An empty KY Jelly box
A beat-up volleyball
I may have to provide updates on this list as they come.
So, I think we really can call it spring now. (Knock on wood.) I was ready, you were ready, everyone was ready, and it had to happen eventually. The start of a new season triggers in me a desire to change something, though I haven't determined exactly what. Maybe it'll be something as insignificant as my hair color, or something as weighty as my career aspirations. I never really know about these things. Just makes life more exciting that way, right?
I'm thinking I'll make cookies (from a mix, of course) this afternoon, maybe write some kind of pop culture-related piece, and get some Buffy going. I'm still working on season seven, but all it'll take at this point is some marathoning.
Gruß Gott. (That was correct, right, Laurie? I can still understand German when I hear it, but I can't write it at all. I'm thinking of independently studying it again for fun.)
Bike rides are great for many reasons: it's exercise, it's actually enjoyable, you feel like you're flying when you hit a decline, et cetera, et cetera. One of the very best things is completely unrelated to movement, though, and that is the objects you see while you're riding.
Today, I spotted the following.
A child's glove (knit)
A rubber glove
Another rubber glove, about ten feet past the first
An empty KY Jelly box
A beat-up volleyball
I may have to provide updates on this list as they come.
So, I think we really can call it spring now. (Knock on wood.) I was ready, you were ready, everyone was ready, and it had to happen eventually. The start of a new season triggers in me a desire to change something, though I haven't determined exactly what. Maybe it'll be something as insignificant as my hair color, or something as weighty as my career aspirations. I never really know about these things. Just makes life more exciting that way, right?
I'm thinking I'll make cookies (from a mix, of course) this afternoon, maybe write some kind of pop culture-related piece, and get some Buffy going. I'm still working on season seven, but all it'll take at this point is some marathoning.
Gruß Gott. (That was correct, right, Laurie? I can still understand German when I hear it, but I can't write it at all. I'm thinking of independently studying it again for fun.)
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