thispresentsojourn

Below [mildly] lay the top twelve most-important-to-me albums of 2007. I’m sure I missed something, but there’s always a “next post,” ay?

	Loney, Dear Loney Noir		Sufjan Stevens The Avalanche
	Andrew Bird Armchair Apocrypha		Page France Hello, Dear Wind
	Sigur Ros Heim/Hvart		Ryan Adams & The Cardinals Follow the Lights
	The Arcade Fire Neon Bible		Stars In Our Bedroom After the War
	Travis The Boy With No Name		Patrick Park Loneliness Knows My Name
	Spoon Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga		Aqualung Memory Man

In some post to come, I will list the top 10 most-important-to-me albums of all time [well, of 23-years time]. I apologize in advance for what repetition might occur; 2007 was a good year.

For this post, I must once again tip my hat to Jordan Singleton, whose musical taste I can never question.

This has actually nothing to do with numerology [as a discipline], but I’m a sucker for alliterative titles. To my own shame.

Now. To the numbers:

The number of years i have been cutting my own hair. Too, the number of years I have been saying, “Next time, I am going to let a professional handle this mass of tangled curls.” In some post to come, I will detail the entire process, and it likely will be wholly unhelpful to you.

The number of words from other languages I try to use per diem. Unfortunately, English is really all i know, and even with it I’ve found my best attempts consist of nothing better than ‘murdering out some meaning’ anyway.

The number of months I’ve had my current cellphone. If you know me well [or not very well at all], you’ll too know that is unprecedented; since receiving my first mobile device in 2002, I’ve passed through 16 different varieties thanks to a measured amount of absent-mindedness, typically expressed by losing, breaking, drowning, and, well, anything else that might destroy small objects whose function relies on electronic circuitry.

The destruction through which each of my cell phones has passed is reflected [to be safe] in my current voicemail message: “Hi. This is Andrew. I’ve either lost my phone or broken it.” That statement is one to which anyone who’s known me [for any period of time] can attest.

Sorry, adelphoi (see Number 8 above).

The number of words per minute, on average, at which online typing tests clock my speed. Of course the majority of what’s required from the keyboardist is sentences like “Jill’s small hat caps cats treading Howard.” Yeah, yeah.

Thanks to a recent resurgence of interest in mathematics [the one responsible for this post, actually], I calculated during my lunch break last Thursday that 120 words-per-minute on the keyboard is roughly equivalent to 300 beats-per-minute on the metronome. I’ll be sure to bring my beat-keeper to the office on Monday to test this hypothesis, though as-of-yet I’m fairly confident it will hold up.

“How do we know if a prophecy’s not false?”
“If it comes true.”