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(01/16/14 5:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>I was never a big book reader as a kid, as I was certainly interested in other activities.Why read a book when I could play the Land Before Time CD-ROM on dad’s Windows 95 Gateway PC? Or assemble a Hot Wheels volcano race track? Or watch talking babies on television?Those Hardy Boys can wait when dad needs your skinny fingers to reach for a screw under a torn-up dashboard.Now, I did make some time for reading as a kid. Some Roald Dahl here, some Narnia there, but many nights were spent reading through the chronicles of George Beard and Harold Hutchins in the Captain Underpants books. Call me crazy, but talking toilets and Professor PoopyPants commanded a lot more attention than a big, friendly giant or even a talking Jesus lion.Not to mention Captain Underpants author Dav Pilkey beautifully integrated poorly-drawn comic books written by the fictional, rabble-rousing main characters. It was these inappropriate, poopy-filled comics to which I greatly attribute my inspiration for drawing cartoons.So, if any of you derive any value or enrichment from my political cartoons at the IDS, please keep in mind, for your own sake, the inspiration of my drawings has changed very little. Feces and politics may both give off a nasty smell, but only one is innocent.Maybe I can say innocence was the reason I read little more than the Captain Underpants books as a kid. There were plenty of silly pictures and topics to keep me occupied.It can be hard to think of a book by itself as being exciting or luring, but if you stop judging the book by it’s cover, you never know what you may find inside. Please try not to cry on the paper or, even worse, your keyboard.To me, books just sit humbly, waiting for you to get to them. They might have a bookmark sticking out to tease you, but there’s no fancy box spitting out tons of sounds and pretty pictures to gain your attention.There’s something relaxing and almost therapeutic about reading a good book while sitting on a couch at the IMU. Simply find a book you like, or even a book you only think you may like, and allow the pages to entertain and stimulate you for a few hours. I feel quite a difference after spending a long time watching television versus reading a book. Even though a book can be more challenging to your imagination, the benefits become quite evident.After a few hours binging on Netflix, I feel I have emerged from a dark cave, exhausted and irresponsible, my mind exhausted from trying to process such a fast influx of images and sounds.Yes, reading a book can be exhausting too, as your imagination must take the wheel.But turning that last page can send you speeding along the rails of the Reading Railroad on a speeding train of thought. — chagiff@indiana.edu
(06/06/13 4:00am)
This week, illustrator Charley Gifford takes on the relationship between Chris Christie's weight-loss surgery and his possible 2016 presidential run.
(04/25/13 4:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>I am convinced this semester did not exist. I do not know what time is anymore. I am no longer interested in worrying about how fast it goes. Now continue reading as I completely contradict that wishful statement.Talking about time can stink, because the nearest elderly person will say, “Just you wait” or “It only goes faster.” Then when I talk to younger friends, I find myself passing on the same old tropes. “You have no clue, you two-years-my-junior whipper-snapper!”I fear making some broad proclamation about the passage of time, because I fear being a senior in two years or a senior citizen in 40 and laughing at myself. Yet I will probably laugh at myself anyway for trying to even anticipate my reaction during those eventual moments. If at any point you find yourself anticipating an anticipation, it’s time for bed. Or politics. No, wait ... bed.I just don’t know what to do about it anymore. People say to live in the moment, but the moment’s already gone now. I suppose the point is not to think about the moment, because if you do, you will realize it’s gone and get depressed.But for me, whenever I don’t think about the moment, bad things happen. When I’m not consciously attending to the moment, I trip down the stairs, forget my homework or crash into a similarly moment-less pedestrian.Does this make life some kind of uneasy combination of living in the moment and living out of it as an observer? Do we choose which ones are important enough for us to live in? I’d have to assume we all have little automatic pilots inside us.Nobody’s in the moment when they’re waiting on the elevator or waiting in line to get a sandwich. How about flipping burgers at work, making your bed or mopping the kitchen? It’d be difficult to find a reason to live in the moment when you’re using the bathroom.Well, maybe except for Larry Craig, whom I hope you remember was that senator who allegedly played footsie with an undercover cop in an airport bathroom. What an awkward one that must have been. See what happens when you live in the wrong moment?I suppose what makes the moment so much fun is that you can share it with people. I’m sorry that genuine sentiment had to segue off the Larry Craig thing, but that’s not what I’m talking about right now.I mean the fun moments: the ones with loved ones and friends that truly bewilder you as to what any of that “moment” stuff means.Those moments when summer rolls around, the family’s back together and old friends come back to town. Or for others, those moments when you go out to explore the world, looking for your joy.Those moments when you’re in your place, at peace or contentedly in search of them.Those moments that become good times, and those good times that become “those days.”— chagiff@indiana.edu
(03/28/13 4:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>The temptation is always there. I’ve managed without them for hours, days. I tremble when I ignore them, yet I tremble even more when I succumb to them.I’m not talking about weed, booze or cocaine.I’m talking about comment sections.It doesn’t take a thorough online search to bump into one of these beautiful representations of American society at work. In comment sections you can find some of the stupidest, most repugnant filth imaginable.And I’ve seen 4Chan, too, and the comment sections on reputable news sites can be just as vile and obscene (minus the manga boobs, of course).When it comes to these hubs of discussion, I take after my main man Obi-Wan Kenobi: “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.”I sincerely believe there is a symbolic reason that comment sections are located at the very bottom of the page. And yes, it’s similar to the reason that a septic field is positioned at the lowest point on the property.Hearken back to the glory days of the Tea Party and Occupy Wall Street: public demonstrations were often tense. Emotions and feelings ran high. People got angry and told us what was on their minds, gosh darn it.Take away that face-to-face interaction that so often limits the full-blown expression of our nastiness, and you’ve got comment sections.You can virtually say anything you want, virtually. You can watch in excitement as tens of readers like your post decrying Barack Obama as a Kenyan Muslim Jew Socialist Drone Bigfoot.You can “+1” the post of a fellow philosopher proclaiming Sarah Palin’s keen geographical observation skills.And with the power of social media integration, we all know exactly with whom we’re talking. Just look at their profile pictures.Like that super-sized lady. Her argument must be wrong because she’s fat. And that black guy? Let’s sprinkle in a snide remark about race. Redhead? Stupid ginger.What’s most remarkable is how often the discussion’s topic doesn’t actually relate to the article or content in question. You could watch a video of a chipmunk being run over by a moped and “BatmanMan52” will be discussing trickle-down economics.Whenever I find myself tangled in the web of arguments, my head starts to hurt. Yet as frustrating as many of the comments can be, woven between the repugnancy are some that I find completely reasonable.And trust me, I’m the guy who can’t write a column without mentioning poop, diarrhea or septic tanks. I am fully acquainted with what is reasonable.To continue my tradition, I’d like to compare finding that one reasonable comment to finding that one toilet in the bathroom that still has a scented urinal cake. A wave of freshness hits you in the midst of your foray into a disgusting, yet necessary activity.Discussion and debate can be a nasty, painful ordeal. But that fact alone doesn’t scorn our whole democracy.It just makes the flush that much more satisfying.— chagiff@indiana.edu
(03/07/13 5:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>It’s amazing when certain circumstances lead to a realization that just completely hits you. When fate, destiny, time or God commands you to piece things together. An intense, overwhelming understanding hits you like a freight train. It paralyzes you with emotion.For weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out how to word this column. I’ve written and written and written, and each time it turned into a sob story. It turned into a pit of sadness that plotted to suck the reader in.I wanted to explain my older sister to the world. She’s not your average older sister. She deals with an interesting mixture of mental illnesses. There’s some OCD, social anxiety, slight autism and developmental delay.Which means she’s anxious, nervous and has trouble understanding everyday interactions with people. She misses certain things. Simple math, sarcasm and nuances just don’t register with her.And depending on the medicine she’s taking, she may start to hear voices. Or she’ll gain a horrendous, transformative amount of weight. Or she’ll succumb to pseudo-seizures.There’s a part of me that wants so badly to tell you everything. To tell you of all the pain that comes from this. The stares in church. The stuttering and seizures. The incomprehensible ways it plays with your emotions.But frankly, that’s enough already. This isn’t a pit of darkness. Not any more.Not since this realization, which interestingly enough, came from someone I don’t even know.I superficially thought this person made easy sense until I heard this person give some genuinely powerful words.These words and a few tears revealed something I hadn’t seen before. I sensed a pain or struggle. Why hadn’t this been so evident before?I think it’s for one simple reason: strength. Having strength means taking your pain and using it to be the best you can be. Rather than ignore it, it motivates you. And this motivation becomes your rock.It drives you in your pursuits and gives you the will to improve. It pushes you to do impossible things for yourself, for those you love and for the world.It doesn’t mean holding this pain above your head for all to see. It means doing incredible things that a loudspeaker of suffering could never accomplish.While my mind may play tricks on me, I know in my heart that my sister has never been my darkness. But that doesn’t mean the switch is at the brightest it can be. For her to always be my light, I must keep in mind the bright.Like playing games of Sorry. Seeing the puppies at the mall. Going for drives to the grocery store. And those incredibly long hugs she gives that never seem to end and shouldn’t.My original draft ended by saying nothing is wrong with our love. This one ends by saying nothing is stronger than our love.And of course, a thank you to a very strong person out there.— chagiff@indiana.edu
(02/21/13 5:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>There’s a neat concept in computer programming called recursion. It’s when a program calls its own name in its definition, essentially running itself repeatedly.In essence, the program becomes a dog chasing its tail.Only, this puppy doesn’t get dizzy and keel over. It just does the same thing billions of times with astounding accuracy and no whining. Plus, it doesn’t pee all over the carpet.But just because we relegate so much of our daily processing needs to computers doesn’t mean loops are absent from our daily lives.We sit in the middle of class and say, “Well, here I am, again.”We look down at our gourmet Ballantine Café sandwich and think, “Farmhouse bread, deli turkey, cheddar cheese and lettuce, again.”We ask the cashier lady, “How are ya?” and then it’s “good-you-oh-not-bad-same-here-have-a-nice-day-you-too” once again.Some loops aren’t quite as obvious as going to class or taking lunch breaks. Seeing old friends during the summer reminds you of old times. Watching Bugs Bunny reminds you of sick days as a kid. The smell of roses takes you back to grandma’s funeral.And the most tantalizing of all: The accidental hearing of Christmas music in July that instantly tricks you into thinking it’s Christmas.Sensations, memories and conclusions from our daily lives form the basis of even deeper loops: our thoughts themselves. These range from, “Don’t eat at Taco Bell, the diarrhea is unbearable” to “There is a God!”In this case, having survived the former is probably what led to the latter.Computers utilize loops to great benefit. But they would be utterly useless if they didn’t know when to end them. In programming, these loop-terminators are often called “test cases.”For instance, a program “Add1” may add 1 to a numeric variable called “Sum.” A possible test case for this program would be, “stop adding 1 when Sum equals 12.”The loop finally ends, “Sum” is returned, and the computer can take a smoke break.We all tend to forget to implement test cases as we go about our lives. And sometimes we do have the test case, but it’s completely wrong.For instance, the “McDonald’s” loop, which adds one hamburger to your waistline upon every recursion, may have the faulty test case, “when it tastes good.”Sometimes we’re just unaware of the test cases and how close our loops have come to them.The “Purple Drank” loop adds an exciting, rambunctious night to every weekend. But several test cases can end the loop, such as “when you fail out” or “when you wake up in the drunk tank,” and so on.Our lives are filled with such a variety of loops: the ones we act out, the ones in our minds, the ones that recur every year and the ones that recur every second. It’s up to you harness or break them accordingly.And never forget that your “Life” loop has a test case, too. When that condition is inevitably met, what “Sum” will you have returned?— chagiff@indiana.edu
(02/07/13 5:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Last Saturday night I went to church at St. Paul’s Catholic.Immediately afterwards, I went straight to Assembly Hall for the Michigan game.Need I explain further? There’s something going on with IUBB.Basketball has always been the talk of the town. Bloomingtonians eat, sleep, breathe, bathe and bask in the glory that is once again Indiana basketball.We come hours early to watch Jordy shoot millions of perfect threes before the game. To see Oladipo slither through the key and slam a seemingly impossible dunk.To wonder if Cody needs oxygen to breathe at that altitude.To revel in the awesomeness that is Derek Elston’s tattoo.To watch Tom Crean clap his hands, pull up his pants and pace up and down the sidelines in passionate enthusiasm for his boys.You wanna know what basketball means in this town? When I was at St. Paul’s before the game, half the congregation was wearing red.People pregame at church in this town, yo. Get on our level!I was lucky enough to observe the game as a member of the media and as a spectator. As what’s called a grip, it was my job to walk around with a handheld cameraman and coil or uncoil loops of cable accordingly.We were part of a mission to provide premium video board entertainment for the restless Assembly Hall crowd.During every timeout, I would stand up and follow my cameraman in his mission for shots of ecstatic Hoosier fans. But during gameplay, I had an under-the-basket view of the best college basketball in the nation.Before tipoff, my cameraman had to go to center court to shoot the color guard for the National Anthem. Along I went, carefully dropping coils.And after “... and the home of the brave,” it hit me. You know what it is. An uproarious, ear-splitting rumble from every direction. A level of excitement so incredibly massive your body’s defenses can’t help but let it in.Or at least I couldn’t. For a few split seconds, I pretended it was for me.“Behold, Charley, grip of the world! His hands brandishing the ability to hold infinite loops of fiber optic camera cable! For when he grips, his cameraman’s only bounds are those of space and time!”My glory was hotly interrupted as the cameraman tugged me away to get a shot of the actual stars. My point is that a fully ignited Assembly Hall emits a peculiar, intense energy. Our players feed off of this energy, and we feed off theirs as well.This energy is capable of permeating through radio waves, TV signals and internet streams across the county, state and country. It impassions alumni and other fans alike in voracious support of the cream and crimson.It’s Dick Vitale screaming, “Unbelievable!” It’s Don Fischer shouting, “It went in!” It’s big heads bouncing up and down. It’s banners flowing in the wind. It’s a chronic condition. It’s Hoosier Hysteria.— chagiff@indiana.edu
(01/24/13 5:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Racism directed at Asians, often specifically the Chinese, comes in a plethora of forms I have identified across the IU campus. My generic use of the term “Asian” is for simplicity’s sake and not to devalue the uniqueness of various Asian cultures.The first form is called “desertion racism.”This is when people realize they have an Asian professor on the first day of class and never come back. Well, except the Asian students, because they know how hard it is for others to understand them already.By no means should this form be confused with typical lecture desertion. While lecture desertion involves listening intently throughout the first lecture and never coming back, desertion racism does not require the “listening intently” phase. Walk-outs may occur.Another style is “passive-aggressive racism.”This occurs when one of the brave souls who came to class asks the professor a question. But instead of asking, “How do I derive the equation from this graph?” they ask, “Howdoiderivetheequationfromthisgraph?”It is generally followed by a forced sigh once it is confirmed the teacher successfully misunderstood the question.This directly relates to the third form, “empathetic racism.”Student A asks the Asian professor a question and sends a quiet distress call upon realizing the question was misunderstood. Then Student B, God bless his soul, turns around to comfort Student A and loudly says, “If only he freakin’ spoke English.”Student A’s distress call was soft, but just loud enough to attract the attention of a more outspoken racist, Student B, who could better express Student A’s disgust.Also related is “proximal racism.”Two people are talking on the bus about “stupid Asians” while an Asian is in direct audial proximity. The committers pounce on the perceived “fact” that the Asian doesn’t understand them.The close proximity empowers the racists to speak their feelings, while speaking in the less-direct third person upholds the delusion of distance.The next form is called “drive-by racism.”This style bears similarity to general drive-by insulting, a tactic often employed by inebriated locals. The distinct difference, however, is that the insult is straight-up racist.Just as the third-person conversing common in proximal racism empowers confidence without consequence, the quick, direct-injection style used in drive-by racism allows a more personal, hateful insult with a guaranteed exit strategy.This is provided that the stoplight ahead stays green, of course.Another form bears the name “bodily racism.”This is when people in public are visibly bothered by proximal Asians. Generally the perceived loudness of the Asians bothers them, resulting in manifestations that include eye-rolling, leaning to one side, tilting of the head and throat-clearing.Bodily racism can very well be followed by “straight-up racism.”In straight-up racism, the person straight-up confronts the Asian and proceeds to say something straight-up racist. Typically the Asian becomes confused or shocked, which is perceived by the straight-up racist as victory.This brings us to the last and most widely used form, “passerby racism.”It’s where you sit back timidly and allow any one of these forms to happen.— chagiff@indiana.edu
(01/15/13 5:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Our current media world is one that is constantly evolving. Students who enter media-related disciplines their freshman year will enter a very different landscape by the time they are seniors.Our educational structure at IU must better prepare students for this.A proposed School of Communication, Media and Journalism would foster more collaboration and reflect the convergence that has been occurring between these disciplines in the media industry.According to the CMJ proposal presented to the provost’s office, the School of Journalism has grown beyond the extent of Ernie Pyle Hall’s resources, forcing it to “cannibalize production and research space” for offices and classrooms.The Department of Communication and Culture is currently headquartered in an unnamed building, where it is given little priority.A lack of classroom space for telecommunications classes creates difficult learning environments for students and forces teachers to structure classes in ways that decrease productivity.I don’t care if the journalism school is worried about losing its prestige or integrity by associating itself with other programs. To insinuate such a thing in the first place is an insult to the talented faculty who staff those two departments.All of these departments can find common ground that results in a media education that not only attracts the attention of hungry high school seniors, but of media programs across the world.I remember being one of those seniors, visiting Ball State’s Letterman Building and being wowed by the amount of media activities under one roof. If only the city of Muncie could wow me.The university’s College of Communication, Information and Media not only houses the journalism, telecommunications and communications departments, but also the school newspaper, student radio station and more, all contained within three conjoined buildings on campus. My sister Kelly, a journalism student at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio, learns in a similar consolidated environment called The Scripps College of Communication. She plans to die a writer in the newsroom, but she has also benefited from the varied approach that will prepare her for a media climate different from the one she entered three years ago.Our educational structure must follow suit with our converging media world. Let’s combine the massive amount of talent we have on campus to create a more productive, helpful media education for ourselves and for many high school seniors to come.— chagiff@indiana.edu
(09/21/12 4:00am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>It seems that during the fifth week of every semester, we’re suddenly and inhumanely hit with a barrage of exams and schoolwork that we’ve had five weeks to prepare for. But screw all that stuff. Wednesday, I proudly procrastinated by registering to vote.Normally I would find a fast, electronic way of doing so, but that would mark me as a novice procrastinator. The Postal Service is the way to go. Sending my registration in physically instead of electronically allows me to graduate into a higher level of time-wasting called “Inception Procrastination.” It’s when you waste time while you’re wasting time. Procrastination within procrastination. Yet unlike Christopher Nolan’s fantasy world, it can go way more than three levels deep.First order of business: Fill out the form. I could print it out and write in the information, but that’s so not 2012. Let’s stick the PDF form in Photoshop and enter in all the info via textboxes. Wouldn’t want whoever reads it to run into any unpleasant eyestrain problems.As it was my first time registering, I was required to prove my identity. Normally I’d wish this process was as simple as writing, “I am Charley” on an old gum wrapper, but that doesn’t take long enough. The form says you can send in a utility bill, but I don’t think a receipt from McDonald’s would count, even if the nice cashier lady wrote “Charley” on it. So, I guess I’ll send in my driver’s license. Usually people would stick it on a scanner, hit “copy” and be on their merry way. Not an overachiever like me. I must scan both sides of the license because God knows if they need that fancy barcode thingy on the back. For added classiness, I’ll stitch the scans side-by-side in Photoshop. It’s looking pretty good, but those rounded corners on the license need to be cleaned up a little. Hell, I’m surprised Apple hasn’t sued the State of Indiana for infringing on such a crucial iPhone patent.After diving in to 400 percent magnification and erasing extra space around the corners, the scan looks nothing other than “simply awesome/stunning/amazing/wonderful/incredible/the best scan I’ve made yet.”After the addition of a gray background, the whiteness of the license is effectively separated. And of course, the pièce de résistance: a drop shadow effect to give the license some much-needed depth. Print!After an hour or so of labor, I had created one of the most beautiful voter registration forms the State of Indiana will ever see. I even wrote a column about it. All the while, not a single drop of schoolwork was completed.Oh well, maybe some good will come out of this and that Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney will lose in November.— chagiff@indiana.edu