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Old 02-01-2010, 08:01 PM   #106
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Originally Posted by Galeongirl View Post
I never actually knew having music stuck in your head was a strange thing. I've always been unable to sit still and usually move my leg according to the beat in my head and stuff like that... sometimes play some air guitar or bass or air drums.. I just figured most musicians have music in their heads or so.

Anyone got a good clue how to get certain songs OUT of your head? Sometimes I get really annoying songs stuck and I can't stop hearing them.
I thought it was normal to have songs in your head 24/7.
Sometimes I can even get depressed by certain songs in my head. In March 2008 I had "Drive/ Who's gonna drive you home" by The Cars in my head. It lasted there for 3 months. Listening to other music didn't help, it came back even after I tried to 'bend it' into the intro of U2's WOWY.
Whenever it's on the radio, I get a nasty feeling. Don't get me wrong, I still think it's a very good song!

Originally Posted by Galeongirl View Post
I thought earworms were the animals.

But I do have music stuck in my head pretty much 24/7, and if I think of a song I can play it in my head up to the smallest detail, separate guitar from bass and piano and such.
I'd love to jam with you sometime!

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Old 03-03-2010, 11:39 AM   #107
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This story from Vanity Fair I found interesting, it touches to some extent on some of the issues discussed in this thread,

After a while even he ceased to find it surprising that he spent most of his time alone. By his late 20s he thought of himself as the sort of person who didn’t have friends. He’d gone through Santa Teresa High School, in San Jose, U.C.L.A., and Vanderbilt University School of Medicine, and created not a single lasting bond. What friendships he did have were formed and nurtured in writing, by email; the two people he considered to be true friends he had known for a combined 20 years but had met in person a grand total of eight times. “My nature is not to have friends,” he said. “I’m happy in my own head.” Somehow he’d married twice. His first wife was a woman of Korean descent who wound up living in a different city (“She often complained that I appeared to like the idea of a relationship more than living the actual relationship”) and his second, to whom he was still married, was a Vietnamese-American woman he’d met on Match.com. In his Match.com profile, he described himself frankly as “a medical resident with only one eye, an awkward social manner, and $145,000 in student loans.” His obsession with personal honesty was a cousin to his obsession with fairness.

Obsessiveness—that was another trait he came to think of as peculiar to himself. His mind had no temperate zone: he was either possessed by a subject or not interested in it at all. There was an obvious downside to this quality—he had more trouble than most faking interest in other people’s concerns and hobbies, for instance—but an upside, too. Even as a small child he had a fantastic ability to focus and learn, with or without teachers. When it synched with his interests, school came easy for him—so easy that, as an undergraduate at U.C.L.A., he could flip back and forth between English and economics and pick up enough pre-medical training on the side to get himself admitted to the best medical schools in the country. He attributed his unusual powers of concentration to his lack of interest in human interaction, and his lack of interest in human interaction … well, he was able to argue that basically everything that happened was caused, one way or the other, by his fake left eye.
Late one night in November 1996, while on a cardiology rotation at Saint Thomas Hospital, in Nashville, Tennessee, he logged on to a hospital computer and went to a message board called techstocks.com. There he created a thread called “value investing.” Having read everything there was to read about investing, he decided to learn a bit more about “investing in the real world.” A mania for Internet stocks gripped the market. A site for the Silicon Valley investor, circa 1996, was not a natural home for a sober-minded value investor. Still, many came, all with opinions. A few people grumbled about the very idea of a doctor having anything useful to say about investments, but over time he came to dominate the discussion. Dr. Mike Burry—as he always signed himself—sensed that other people on the thread were taking his advice and making money with it.

Once he figured out he had nothing more to learn from the crowd on his thread, he quit it to create what later would be called a blog but at the time was just a weird form of communication. He was working 16-hour shifts at the hospital, confining his blogging mainly to the hours between midnight and three in the morning. On his blog he posted his stock-market trades and his arguments for making the trades. People found him. As a money manager at a big Philadelphia value fund said, “The first thing I wondered was: When is he doing this? The guy was a medical intern. I only saw the nonmedical part of his day, and it was simply awesome. He’s showing people his trades. And people are following it in real time. He’s doing value investing—in the middle of the dot-com bubble. He’s buying value stocks, which is what we’re doing. But we’re losing money. We’re losing clients. All of a sudden he goes on this tear. He’s up 50 percent. It’s uncanny. He’s uncanny. And we’re not the only ones watching it.”

“He calls me the day before the meeting,” says one of his e-mail friends, himself a professional money manager. “And he asks, ‘What should I wear?’ He didn’t own a tie. He had one blue sports coat, for funerals.” This was another quirk of Mike Burry’s. In writing, he presented himself formally, even a bit stuffily, but he dressed for the beach. Walking to Gotham’s office, he panicked and ducked into a Tie Rack and bought a tie. He arrived at the big New York money-management firm as formally attired as he had ever been in his entire life to find its partners in T-shirts and sweatpants. The exchange went something like this: “We’d like to give you a million dollars.” “Excuse me?” “We want to buy a quarter of your new hedge fund. For a million dollars.” “You do?” “Yes. We’re offering a million dollars.” “After tax!”

Betting on the Blind Side | Business | Vanity Fair

I am not really like the guy in the article, but can identify with the obsessional thinking thing to an extent.

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