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You need at least two semesters of a language to graduate from my college. So I’m taking Chinese.

I started learning Spanish in eighth grade, and although I continued through my senior year of high school, I doubt I could talk my way out of a plastic Taco Bell bag.

Even after all that time, I still can’t roll my r’s. When my teacher said hamburguesa, prompting me to repeat it, her r would spin perfect cartwheels into the g, and my earnest response would sound something like “hamburLUHLUHguesa.”

The Chinese man teaching this course was so determined to illicit the correct pronunciation of the phonetic alphabet, sounds that my mouth in conjunction with my voice have never made before on purpose, that he would not shy away to avoid the certain embarrassment of a student until they got it right. And after every mistake, he would lean a little bit closer to my desk, drastically contorting his lips back to the correct shape, pointing and gently arcing a piece of white chalk in the air like a conductor.

“Please say, dddjjjzzz.”

“Ssshhhzzz.”

“No, dddjjjzzz.”

“Dddaaacccchhh.”

“DDDJJJZZZ.”

“JJJUUUZZZ!”

Of course, in the car on the way home, it came out perfect. Because no one could hear me.

I haven’t been this intent on studying something since fifth grade geography.

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Over the weekend, my sister and I stopped by my favorite bookstore to waste time and grab a few novels to get us through the week. They had a PostSecret display set up in the back of the store, and as I picked up one of the collections and began to flip through it, the receipt to the left fluttered to the ground.

(For those who don’t know, PostSecret is a popular ongoing art project in which people anonymously mail their secrets on postcards to the creator, Frank Warren, who then scans a selection to the community site every Sunday morning.)

I was lucky enough to see Frank’s keynote at SXSW, and it turned out to be one of my favorite presentations at the festival, even after the atrociously awkward Mark Zuckerberg train wreck.

In any event, seeing this secret, probably unread since the author’s decision to stick it between the pages, was strangely intimate, and since the receipt is only two weeks old, it was as if the girl (I blurred out her name, which appeared in the circle, as I’m not sure that having it posted on the internet was what she was going for) was standing behind me like a Sixth Sense ghost, quietly whispering that, right now, she is experiencing a conflict that others may not know about. Although, in some way, I think a lot of people can relate to what she’s saying.

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Dorm room circa 2005. Are you seeing those pictures of Emmy Rossum above my bed?

I told you.

In ten days, I’ll be beginning my fifth year of college, which will undoubtedly result in me being referred to, at least once, as a super-senior. I imagine this term is on par with superhero. And super…iority.

And superfluous.

My career in higher education has been a jumble of decent professors, awkward relationships, and posters of flowery landscapes and sailors kissing girls because that’s all they ever had left in the bookstore aside from boobs in different tropical settings and Uncle Sam looming behind a beer pong table demanding SINK IT DRINK IT.

During my first ever week of classes, I was hoping to attain at least some type of friendship equivalent, as my roommate spoke Spanish, which is fine, except that when she said tengo hambre her eyes said stay the hell away from my Pringles. I checked the lineup of activities and noticed that the college was holding a foam dance party on the basketball courts, and by foam I mean the white suds that sit on top of a sink full of dirty dishes and not the squishy polyfoam they use in insulation which would’ve been infinitely more acceptable.

I’m wondering how the planners came up with that as a decent transition into college life. And I know what you’re thinking. I would love to dance around to music in foamy wetness. But if you’re imagining it, you’re either frolicking alone or with your friends, not with strange skinny boys in beaters and the girls you thought you left behind in high school.

For the record, after reading those event details, I promptly went online and then fell asleep, which adequately describes my first year and a half of college.

Coincidentally, my grades during that time were the highest they’ve ever been, and now I’m thinking that the college must have purposefully implemented awkward social functions in order to keep people like me shoved as far into the corner of a textbook-walled fort as was physically possible. And it worked. It’s too bad I transfered to a school that has less of those, because I could totally have a degree right now.

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The New American Music Union wrapped up last night with a performance by Bob Dylan. All of the weekend’s sets surpassed my already high expectations.

Equipped with a press pass that got me into American Eagle headquarters, I was lucky enough to attend a small pre-show conference, where a few of the headliners and hosts answered questions and shared their perspectives on the city and show. (Thank you, C.C.)

Curating the session was Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers who, while he didn’t perform, was responsible for organizing the event (which quickly sold out of its 10,000 tickets).

“Music is still the most inspiring creative force that I know of and this seemed like a prime opportunity to let it shine. Add to this the fact of a generously low ticket price and that it all takes place in the streets of Pittsburgh and we have the most rocking block party of the summer.” -Kiedis

Danger Mouse of Gnarls Barkley (left) said of Pittsburgh, “We were expecting Detroit, and got Chicago. Which is a good thing.”

I love concerts and am generally used to ridiculously overpriced merchandise and the same type of venue over and over again, but American Eagle did a pretty good job of adding to this festival’s distinctiveness. They gave away name brand event t-shirts (which were nice enough that I probably would’ve bought one if they weren’t handed out) with every ticket purchase along with plastic, logo’d water bottles to coincide with cooler stations set up throughout the area.

Gnarls Barkley was my favorite set. The lineup was fantastic, and it was exciting to see and hear such a unique mix of sounds, as I doubt I would’ve ever gotten a chance to see The Raconteurs or The Duke Spirit live if it wasn’t for this festival.

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The other day, I discovered that Facebook has a blog networks application, which, if it was still 2004, I would’ve avoided like a Lindsay Lohan movie. I sometimes find myself wondering why for so long, it was acceptable to publish pictures of drunken shenanigans on a social network, but I was terrified to own up to my running commentary on plane rides and professors. Why was that more offensive?

Fast forward four years, and my real-life friends are sending chain emails about their latest blog posts.

David Karp: People have been so paranoid about having any presence online for such a long time. A lot of them have gone through that transition of “Well, shit, it’s out there. I’m searchable on Flickr or Google. The cat is out of the bag, and the only way to take back that control is to get out there and have a presence, have an identity that you feel represents you.

American Eagle is bringing the New American Music Union to Pittsburgh over the next two days, and I’m anticipating that it’s going to be one of the biggest festivals the city has seen for a while. I’ll be down there for the majority of the weekend, so please hold your ears if my excited updates are becoming too much.

New American Music Union Stage Build from CC Chapman on Vimeo.

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I’ve been thinking about blog comments lately. I’ve always been thankful and interested in every response I’ve received to something I write, but sometimes, I can’t help but wonder (paging Carrie Bradshaw — Carrie Bradshaw to the post, please) are we really listening to what someone says before we’re coming up with our own responses?

Some of my favorite blogs do not open comments. I support that. In a way, it embodies the rawness of a novel. You’re engulfed in a story that will not be tampered with. You can read an account of a girl who was in the car with her sister, the new Coldplay single playing quietly on the radio, when the car spun out of control, landing on a patch of grass and barely striking a small dog who barked once at their shocked faces, without scrolling down to, OMG I HATE Coldplay but yeah.

A lot of bloggers say they keep them open because they want to be told when they’re wrong. But what if you’re not talking about the Mac software upgrade? Or the definition of “new media”? What if you’re writing about meeting your Dad for lunch? Um, yeah, great post, but I’m pretty sure it was Thursday that you and your father ate biscotti at Caribou Coffee. I definitely didn’t see you there Friday and I was there for, like, four hours.

I also find that it changes the way I write, as I attempt to foresee and influence the type of responses I receive. I’ve dealt with insulting feedback. You may have caught one or two, but if you look back, you probably won’t find them. Because I’ve deleted them. Pretty much immediately. But the voices of your readers are taken away! I can be criticized privately. This is not a forum. As with many personal websites, commenters are guests in your home. It’s fine to ask them to not fling feces at your curtains.

But what about Web 2.0? That’s where your blog is supposed to be. You’re regressing. Good. Can I be the one responsible for slashing that term’s neck? Should there always be an outlet for everyone else’s two cents, even if it’s destructive to the author or completely superfluous (FIRST!)? Basically, I see the positives in having comments, but am slightly overwhelmed by the idea that something is not legitimate unless the public is able to mark its pages, uncensored.

If a blog’s not a blog without comments, what is it? A memoir? A webmoir?

What if what you’re saying isn’t meant for conversation? Does every blog need to be a community?

With posts like this, I suppose so, but with the manner of some of my entries, I don’t find them especially necessary.

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