In what can only be called an event long overdue, Harriet Miers has withdrawn her nomination to the Supreme Court. Yes! Thank goodness! Why, oh why, am I so excited to see her rescind her ridiculous nomination? Is it because she doesn't vigorously oppose abortion? Not quite. Is it because she appears dazed and confused when asked about consitutional law? We should certainly avoid placing stupid people on the bench, but no, stupidity is not my major qualm with the woman. The reason for my exuberance as Miers walks out of the major headlines is purely selfish - I will never again have to see Miers' ugly mug on my tv screen, on my monitor, or in my newspaper in such a gross fashion as has occurred in the past few weeks.
That's right, Miers is just too damn ugly for her own good...and certainly for my own good.
Isn't there some type of litmus test that serves as a barometer for not only who gets in the news but also for people who are put into newsworthy positions? Should we be made to suffer the dregs of our gene pool just because they're quote, unquote: qualified or right for the job? I argue that, no!, we as a people have a right to have not only qualified people but also pretty ones nominated to public positions.
It is not only our right to demand some eye candy along with substantive action, it should be our duty and priviledge. There was a time and a place for uncouth, misshapen people who, simply because they happened to be "qualified," reached the highest points of political opportunity in our nation. That time is past! Now we must suffer not only the policy but also the visage of those policy makers! The sanctity of relying on the pretty or passable face of someone who is currently running the nation into the ground cannot be ignored!
So how dare they? How dare these public officials who have passed the public's eye candy test, if only by the hairs of their barely there chinny-chin-chins, offer unto us a woman whose very face reminds one a fun house mirror!
I'm not saying Harriet Miers is a bad person.
I am saying Harriet Miers gives me the willies every time I see her.
I'm not saying that the lady is somehow a less complete person because we can only hope her face is the droopiest part of her body.
But holy trident of Neptune, she ugly!
So, let me say thank you both to Harriet Miers and George W. Bush. Ms. Miers, thank you for realizing you're not only too inept to even make it through the questionarre prelims but that you're also too representative of exactly the type of people we can't have reproducing. We just can't take that chance of more ugly people crowding this already ugly planet. And President Bush, thank you for understanding that cocaine-induced hallucinations of divine intervention and beautiful women are not always true. It's a hard pill to swallow, so we're glad you bit the bullet.
You gotta wonder. Did President Bush ever poke Ms. Miers' cheek to see if it would get stuck?
Dude, I so would. And I really wonder, would it have stuck?
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
So, Rosa Parks is Dead
I'm sure OutKast now wishes they had just waited a few more months instead of settling Parks' lawsuit against them back in April. They say hindsight is 20/20, but come on people! She was old, surely the logic of her imminent death should have inspired some reigns to be applied to the desire to settle on a grotesque attempt to violate the First Amendment. Patience, people, we must learn patience.
Such poor attempts at humour (that's right, English spelling, what?) aside, it's an amazing thing that today marks the passing of the second most visible icon of America's Civil Rights struggle. The only conception I have of Martin Luther King, Jr. comes from speeches, photographs, and news reels from the sixties. A powerful, yet very static figure who emerges and comes to life from a past that is truly history to me, unlike many others who lived through those decades. Rosa Parks is one of the few people from that time period and celebrated by the media who survived well into my life. In a decade of cognizance where there are very few Mandelas and Theresas, the presence of Rosa Parks was a startling and all important one.
In a way, the significance of Rosa Parks exists simply because she became that media darling for the Civil Rights movement. So? The reason of her significance is the same reason for anyone's or anything's rise to popularity and importance. If the media didn't take up a story, it never gets heard by the masses and never means anything to the people. Because Ms. Parks was embraced by the NAACP and the national media meant that everyone who came before her now had a voice and the people who usually wouldn't hear that voice had no choice but to listen. Thus Rosa Parks became the symbol for not only the movement but also for the other men and women who refused to give up their seats on public transportation, and that is a great thing to celebrate. That she is the symbol does not and can never take away from the acts of other individuals. It is a sad note on our society and our prediliction to be so damnably fickle when it comes to history that we remember no one else who refused to bow to inhuman demands. I did a few minutes of research on Ms. Parks this morning (hail to Wikipedia!) and I was very surprised to see that Jackie Robinson likewise refused to give up his seat -- suprising because it's Jackie Robinson, man, freakin' Jackie Robinson!
Rosa Parks demands equal attention and heralding for her brave statement and actions as all those who preceded her. Yet since the movement and America defined her as a symbol of resistance and dignity, we give her due praise. I will gladly do as most Americans shall this day (or, if we're honest, as too few shall) and give thought and wonder to such courage. I, however, will also apologize for not knowing the names of the people Ms. Parks represented and will, if but for a day, remember and study their actions: Irene Morgan, an unnamed 15 year old girl, Jackie Robinson, Claudette Colvin, Mary Louise Smith.
Such poor attempts at humour (that's right, English spelling, what?) aside, it's an amazing thing that today marks the passing of the second most visible icon of America's Civil Rights struggle. The only conception I have of Martin Luther King, Jr. comes from speeches, photographs, and news reels from the sixties. A powerful, yet very static figure who emerges and comes to life from a past that is truly history to me, unlike many others who lived through those decades. Rosa Parks is one of the few people from that time period and celebrated by the media who survived well into my life. In a decade of cognizance where there are very few Mandelas and Theresas, the presence of Rosa Parks was a startling and all important one.
In a way, the significance of Rosa Parks exists simply because she became that media darling for the Civil Rights movement. So? The reason of her significance is the same reason for anyone's or anything's rise to popularity and importance. If the media didn't take up a story, it never gets heard by the masses and never means anything to the people. Because Ms. Parks was embraced by the NAACP and the national media meant that everyone who came before her now had a voice and the people who usually wouldn't hear that voice had no choice but to listen. Thus Rosa Parks became the symbol for not only the movement but also for the other men and women who refused to give up their seats on public transportation, and that is a great thing to celebrate. That she is the symbol does not and can never take away from the acts of other individuals. It is a sad note on our society and our prediliction to be so damnably fickle when it comes to history that we remember no one else who refused to bow to inhuman demands. I did a few minutes of research on Ms. Parks this morning (hail to Wikipedia!) and I was very surprised to see that Jackie Robinson likewise refused to give up his seat -- suprising because it's Jackie Robinson, man, freakin' Jackie Robinson!
Rosa Parks demands equal attention and heralding for her brave statement and actions as all those who preceded her. Yet since the movement and America defined her as a symbol of resistance and dignity, we give her due praise. I will gladly do as most Americans shall this day (or, if we're honest, as too few shall) and give thought and wonder to such courage. I, however, will also apologize for not knowing the names of the people Ms. Parks represented and will, if but for a day, remember and study their actions: Irene Morgan, an unnamed 15 year old girl, Jackie Robinson, Claudette Colvin, Mary Louise Smith.
Friday, October 21, 2005
A Script
For my third Acting project I have to create a performance based on the inspiration of a rather lackluster painting. (I am struggling with the blatant choice of posting a picture of this painting. I think I want to focus on words for the moment and allow visuals to remain undefined by me. That and I'm way too lazy to post pictures, for now at least. I do have spits and spats of activity though they be far and few between.) Though I was, as I always am, incredibly reticent to partner up with anyone, forced as I was into the decision of partners I could not have landed in a better group. The two women and I decided to come up with a 7 minute play about domestic abuse. Cheery stuff, eh?
Though we shared the burdens of various duties equally (at least more than I've ever experienced in a group), I asked to write the script. After dealing with shocked stares and questions of the incredulous kind, I had a pen in my hand and was writing our script! Such an exciting opportunity - I wrote fiction for a class! Equally delightful and scary stuff. I say scary because it is a bit scary when creating in this way for anyone other than yourself (or myself since, hell, I am speaking about myself). To step back, I admit that I have a very odd approach to writing academically (which includes essays, exams, and the like). Academic writing, for me, is almost like writing fiction - or how I imagine most people approach writing fiction. I have a beginning, middle, and finale throughout which I create a plot and use the characters provided for me. It can be an incredible experience, especially when writing for a likeminded professor. When not, I can almost imagine how most everyone else views writing...an exercise in boredom. Almost, that is. And so, writing creatively differs, for me, from academically in that the characters used are of your own invention. While I can justify almost any declaration made about a character as long as evidence and logical (HAH!) assumptions are held, it is on me to create such evidence when originality is demanded. Not only that but I must create a world in which the evidence breathes without crutch devices. Scary, thought in the best possible way, I assure you. Only if one didn't write would it be a bad thing - the scariest thing, to me...not writing.
At a completion of about a week and a half of rewrites and discussions about the script and the characters, my group has finally decided on a last cut of my script. In fact, I am just back from the hour long meeting in which we made our decisions. I cannot say more about the experience. I truly loved exploring ideas, making and listening to suggestions about movement, and hearing what the others brought to the table. I have a lot of faith in my ability to create. However, I have even greater faith in the ability of the collaborative process to tease and promote the best of the ideas from everyone involved. (With the desperate hope that everyone is as willing and open and eager for the search, journey and the goal.)
All that is left are rehearsals and our performance next Friday. While I thoroughly enjoyed trying to find Marlowe's Old Man, I am eager even now for my performance to be over. I knew full well when I was writing an abuse story that it would fall to me to play the abuser which would be a hard sell (actually, I would have trouble playing either the abuser or the abused). However, the idea seemed, and certainly is, interesting enough that I could suck it up and bite off a piece of violent misery. But....wow, much harder than I thought. There is a depth or superficiality to this character that I can't even imagine possessing. I can believe and embrace passion; even that which overwhelms. However. Violent passion is hard for me to even fathom. Yet I can create it. Now, whether or not I can create such realistically is an entirely different matter. I have received 'passing' to 'good' remarks on how I handled everything...but who knows, for in the age of relativity, reality is as variable as anything else.
The striking thing for me is that I can write about a thing so anathemaic to me. Of course I can find little truths in the words this character says. Now, surely I can qualify that rather bold statement. I see truth because of his character...who he is as a man, an abuser, a husband...defines the words that he speaks. I find myself comfortable (or perhaps able is a more approriate word) in the search for his words and his actions, because I know his character. In my mind, I can play the clip or scene from my imagination without any hesitation. Yet I struggle to make my body and my tongue act in the ways this character would. Why?
I have always thought I could act. Never a doubt in my mind, I could take the stage and dominate. In my mind, the words flowed without falter and movement twined like the body of a ballerina. And yet such a break or disconnect exists between what I can imagine and what I can physically do. I cannot deny myself as I should be able to if I were to fully become this other character. I can create characters who exist, in part, despite of me. But I cannot be those characters who are despite me.
Oh no, I'm a Method Actor!
I kid, I kid. (Method Acting has always partially weirded me out. Another story for anther time.) Forgive me if this was rather boring but the above thoughts simply rushed me. And they are important thoughts, to me at least. Such things I have considered since I was small. To reach a sense of understanding and balance about them is a true wonder. Perhaps an allowance as well, for I can see better what I do and understand more fuly what I can do, am capable of. Well, what I am capable of is too ambiguous to be seen. Whether I remain a son quickly to be forgotten or a son with a thing waiting to be embraced, I cannot even begin to fathom. But it's a cool thing, regardless, to know more about myself. Because when you know yourself, ladies and gentlemen, the following quotation holds a hell of a lot more meaning.
"When I think about you, I touch myself." *snarky*
Though we shared the burdens of various duties equally (at least more than I've ever experienced in a group), I asked to write the script. After dealing with shocked stares and questions of the incredulous kind, I had a pen in my hand and was writing our script! Such an exciting opportunity - I wrote fiction for a class! Equally delightful and scary stuff. I say scary because it is a bit scary when creating in this way for anyone other than yourself (or myself since, hell, I am speaking about myself). To step back, I admit that I have a very odd approach to writing academically (which includes essays, exams, and the like). Academic writing, for me, is almost like writing fiction - or how I imagine most people approach writing fiction. I have a beginning, middle, and finale throughout which I create a plot and use the characters provided for me. It can be an incredible experience, especially when writing for a likeminded professor. When not, I can almost imagine how most everyone else views writing...an exercise in boredom. Almost, that is. And so, writing creatively differs, for me, from academically in that the characters used are of your own invention. While I can justify almost any declaration made about a character as long as evidence and logical (HAH!) assumptions are held, it is on me to create such evidence when originality is demanded. Not only that but I must create a world in which the evidence breathes without crutch devices. Scary, thought in the best possible way, I assure you. Only if one didn't write would it be a bad thing - the scariest thing, to me...not writing.
At a completion of about a week and a half of rewrites and discussions about the script and the characters, my group has finally decided on a last cut of my script. In fact, I am just back from the hour long meeting in which we made our decisions. I cannot say more about the experience. I truly loved exploring ideas, making and listening to suggestions about movement, and hearing what the others brought to the table. I have a lot of faith in my ability to create. However, I have even greater faith in the ability of the collaborative process to tease and promote the best of the ideas from everyone involved. (With the desperate hope that everyone is as willing and open and eager for the search, journey and the goal.)
All that is left are rehearsals and our performance next Friday. While I thoroughly enjoyed trying to find Marlowe's Old Man, I am eager even now for my performance to be over. I knew full well when I was writing an abuse story that it would fall to me to play the abuser which would be a hard sell (actually, I would have trouble playing either the abuser or the abused). However, the idea seemed, and certainly is, interesting enough that I could suck it up and bite off a piece of violent misery. But....wow, much harder than I thought. There is a depth or superficiality to this character that I can't even imagine possessing. I can believe and embrace passion; even that which overwhelms. However. Violent passion is hard for me to even fathom. Yet I can create it. Now, whether or not I can create such realistically is an entirely different matter. I have received 'passing' to 'good' remarks on how I handled everything...but who knows, for in the age of relativity, reality is as variable as anything else.
The striking thing for me is that I can write about a thing so anathemaic to me. Of course I can find little truths in the words this character says. Now, surely I can qualify that rather bold statement. I see truth because of his character...who he is as a man, an abuser, a husband...defines the words that he speaks. I find myself comfortable (or perhaps able is a more approriate word) in the search for his words and his actions, because I know his character. In my mind, I can play the clip or scene from my imagination without any hesitation. Yet I struggle to make my body and my tongue act in the ways this character would. Why?
I have always thought I could act. Never a doubt in my mind, I could take the stage and dominate. In my mind, the words flowed without falter and movement twined like the body of a ballerina. And yet such a break or disconnect exists between what I can imagine and what I can physically do. I cannot deny myself as I should be able to if I were to fully become this other character. I can create characters who exist, in part, despite of me. But I cannot be those characters who are despite me.
Oh no, I'm a Method Actor!
I kid, I kid. (Method Acting has always partially weirded me out. Another story for anther time.) Forgive me if this was rather boring but the above thoughts simply rushed me. And they are important thoughts, to me at least. Such things I have considered since I was small. To reach a sense of understanding and balance about them is a true wonder. Perhaps an allowance as well, for I can see better what I do and understand more fuly what I can do, am capable of. Well, what I am capable of is too ambiguous to be seen. Whether I remain a son quickly to be forgotten or a son with a thing waiting to be embraced, I cannot even begin to fathom. But it's a cool thing, regardless, to know more about myself. Because when you know yourself, ladies and gentlemen, the following quotation holds a hell of a lot more meaning.
"When I think about you, I touch myself." *snarky*
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Boy, Grab that Ass
The above refers to the most recent Smallville episode which ended with Lana hugging Clark with all her might, thinking her man had died from a bullet. (And no, the girl ain't that dim, he did actually die.) Yet as Lana embraced Clark, she did it in such a way that created about a foot and a half distance between her feet and the floor. It is in this position where one assumes the huggee to grab the hugger's ass and bring those legs to a more comfortable position around said huggee's waist. At least this is what I thought during the closing moments of Smallville. And so, I said, to myself, "Boy, grab that ass." It just seemed so very wrong to just leave her hanging like that. It was as if she were attempting to give Clark a high-five and he ignored her wanting, waiting hand. I felt it most rude. However, I suppose one must make allowances for Superboy. He had just died. Lionel had just channeled Jor-El (kick ass!) who informed him that "someone you love must die." I admit, rather weighty stuff. Perhaps weighty enough to push the natural thought of "grabbing ass" to the side. Perhaps.
(I really miss Elisabeth. We have about the same height difference as the doomed pair cited above after I thought, "Boy, grab that ass," I also thought, "I'd like to hug Elisabeth." And then, to solidify how pathetic I felt during that moment, I audibly sighed the following - which made me think of Damion - "Awwwwwwwww.")
This brings me to the subject of Superman, a subject which I am very likely to revist in the coming months and months.
Dude, Superman is all sorts of cool! While I do love Batman, Superman exists on another plane. Not a better plane, mind you, just a different one - 'cause he isn't a plane, don't you know.
Virtue and strength. Those words embody the attraction of Superman. As I think about it, a Christ-like figure. Only a little bit more bulgy and slightly more fallible. And tights. Superman loves his tights. And he loves defending the defenseless.
That action and the desire to perform such an action is fascinating. Some people may have the power to defend those who cannot defend themselves. But, more often than not, the powerful exist and live for the sole purpose of becoming more powerful. It takes something beyond power to save the poor, the weak. There must be this idea that, given such power, or even given the want of power, one "should" defend and act on behalf of those who cannot act. That idea of necessity and need is powerful in and of itself. Who would choose self-sacrifice over self-indulgence? I would gladly sacrifice for those whom I love. Yet I love them, there is a need there for me to provide and protect them. While I like to think I try and do small things that serve others, I don't know how willing I would be to lay down my life for the charge and benefit of others.
So the creation of a character that embodies service in our modern world is an incredible exploration of what it means to sacrifice and live for lives that are not your own. As I mentioned before, I seriously consider Superman to be a Christ-like figure. Just as those who are Christians are called to live as Christ lived, so I think Superman exists as epitome of human character - powerful, kind, and willing to serve. Whether or not Superman as the pinnacle of human character for societies outside of the USA, I can't say. However, Superman seems to unify not only the American ideals of individualism (for he is one man) and strength, but also kindness and self-sacrifice. Yes, I would argue that even in today's America, there remains an ideal, nomatter how far away it is or diluted it has become, which defines Superman and justifies not only his creation but our continued infatuation with him.
Or just mine.
And Jerry Seinfeld's.
(I really miss Elisabeth. We have about the same height difference as the doomed pair cited above after I thought, "Boy, grab that ass," I also thought, "I'd like to hug Elisabeth." And then, to solidify how pathetic I felt during that moment, I audibly sighed the following - which made me think of Damion - "Awwwwwwwww.")
This brings me to the subject of Superman, a subject which I am very likely to revist in the coming months and months.
Dude, Superman is all sorts of cool! While I do love Batman, Superman exists on another plane. Not a better plane, mind you, just a different one - 'cause he isn't a plane, don't you know.
Virtue and strength. Those words embody the attraction of Superman. As I think about it, a Christ-like figure. Only a little bit more bulgy and slightly more fallible. And tights. Superman loves his tights. And he loves defending the defenseless.
That action and the desire to perform such an action is fascinating. Some people may have the power to defend those who cannot defend themselves. But, more often than not, the powerful exist and live for the sole purpose of becoming more powerful. It takes something beyond power to save the poor, the weak. There must be this idea that, given such power, or even given the want of power, one "should" defend and act on behalf of those who cannot act. That idea of necessity and need is powerful in and of itself. Who would choose self-sacrifice over self-indulgence? I would gladly sacrifice for those whom I love. Yet I love them, there is a need there for me to provide and protect them. While I like to think I try and do small things that serve others, I don't know how willing I would be to lay down my life for the charge and benefit of others.
So the creation of a character that embodies service in our modern world is an incredible exploration of what it means to sacrifice and live for lives that are not your own. As I mentioned before, I seriously consider Superman to be a Christ-like figure. Just as those who are Christians are called to live as Christ lived, so I think Superman exists as epitome of human character - powerful, kind, and willing to serve. Whether or not Superman as the pinnacle of human character for societies outside of the USA, I can't say. However, Superman seems to unify not only the American ideals of individualism (for he is one man) and strength, but also kindness and self-sacrifice. Yes, I would argue that even in today's America, there remains an ideal, nomatter how far away it is or diluted it has become, which defines Superman and justifies not only his creation but our continued infatuation with him.
Or just mine.
And Jerry Seinfeld's.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
A Disgusting Habit
...this is not something I am proud.
However, I am man enough to admit this.
In times of great distress and with consternation clouding my better judgment, when eating an apple I can forget to take the sticker off. Yes, at times, I may eat the sticker. It is shameful, I know this well.
In grade school, chatting with friends and involved in the pure delight known as school lunch, I would unwittingly throw myself without hindrance to the yumminess of my New Zealand apples. It was awful, seeing the muffled laughter and the rather glazed stares of my peers who really couldn't care less but for the slight gigglement as I tore into the sticker. Yet how could I face them the next day? How could I go on with a sticky stickiness in my tummy? I do not know how I did it, but I went on. Even more impressive, I do believe, is that I would always forget the previous day's eating adventures. I'm an absent minded fellow. If only it were as cute a moniker without the title of professor.
Yet, despite all that would prevent me from claiming an apple without the sticky, I pushed myself to remember those wretched sticky identifiers before I rejoiced in my apple. A titanic struggle it is, I have no difficulty in saying. Or rather, was, for it is not so hard now as it was in my far distant youth.
But now I can proudly say, I achieved and still lay claim to the summit of not eating the stickers on apples! Before piercing the good flesh of forbidden fruit, I triumphantly tear the sticker from shiny surfaces and placing it on the little depression thingie opposite from the stem. (Dude, I spent about 30 minutes, ie 5 minutes, searching for the name of it and came up in vain.)
Success and glory is mine!
However, I am man enough to admit this.
In times of great distress and with consternation clouding my better judgment, when eating an apple I can forget to take the sticker off. Yes, at times, I may eat the sticker. It is shameful, I know this well.
In grade school, chatting with friends and involved in the pure delight known as school lunch, I would unwittingly throw myself without hindrance to the yumminess of my New Zealand apples. It was awful, seeing the muffled laughter and the rather glazed stares of my peers who really couldn't care less but for the slight gigglement as I tore into the sticker. Yet how could I face them the next day? How could I go on with a sticky stickiness in my tummy? I do not know how I did it, but I went on. Even more impressive, I do believe, is that I would always forget the previous day's eating adventures. I'm an absent minded fellow. If only it were as cute a moniker without the title of professor.
Yet, despite all that would prevent me from claiming an apple without the sticky, I pushed myself to remember those wretched sticky identifiers before I rejoiced in my apple. A titanic struggle it is, I have no difficulty in saying. Or rather, was, for it is not so hard now as it was in my far distant youth.
But now I can proudly say, I achieved and still lay claim to the summit of not eating the stickers on apples! Before piercing the good flesh of forbidden fruit, I triumphantly tear the sticker from shiny surfaces and placing it on the little depression thingie opposite from the stem. (Dude, I spent about 30 minutes, ie 5 minutes, searching for the name of it and came up in vain.)
Success and glory is mine!
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
The Calamity of Calamities
...otherwise known as the march of winter. *shakes his fist at the gods of nature, envisioning himself as Basil Fawtly -- sad and lonely, manic and depressive....very thin and angry*
(Hence follows a rather circuitous path until my eventual discussion of writing.)
As I think of it, quite like Basil, I too want to smash something with a small tree. No master chef has screwed my orders of duck and no gay French chef is drunkenly macking on my Spanish monkey. However, bludgeoning a nice sapling might go well to putting a smile on my face. Not that I don't have a smile on my face as it is, but we all want more happiness and tarnation if a beaten tree wouldn't serve that great purpose.
Do you ever get depressed that there are only 12 epidsodes of "Fawlty Towers" -- upset that the comedic genius of some snarky (for you, hippy) Brit will never find laughter again in a hotel? Yeah, me too.
I feel the desire to post, yet I am seriously lacking in the realm of "what in the hey to talk about." So....anywho.
How great is Hugh Laurie?! Yeah, he would be cool to talk about when I am not in the depths of food laden not-caringness. Or something. I think I'll try to make myself more empathetic to the cares of this world and my own mind by working on some probability homework. And yet, I think it was that homework that actually put me in such a mood. Rancour worthy!
Also rancour worthy is a discussion I had yesterday with an English professor who is helping me massage a paper on Ophelia into an item worthy of publishing or conferencing. I have my doubts, both concerning the merits of the paper and the time I have to give to such an endeavor. Yet, he's enthusiastic and cute when he gets excited, so I'll try and do what I can. However, talk about cutting me down yesterday. I revised the paper for him and after the weekend he called me in with the command to "scratch it and start over." Fan-freakin'-tastic! Not only that but he told me the paper was a rather bad undergraduate paper. Shucks there matey, it's the same paper you gave me an A on last semester. Actually, I've always believed the paper sucks mightily and was ever so surprised when he marked me well on it. So that didn't both me too much.
In fact, the whole "smackdown" didn't bother me, other than I really don't have the time to invest in the revision. My writing, or myself and thus my writing, reaches very few people. So when I get the chance to hear someone critique my writing, I'm truly happy for the opportunity. Everyone says I write well and generally no one looks at me funny when I tell them I want to write fiction in another life (I take that as a good sign, do not delude me!). And yet, I don't want to rest on being the "good" writer in class. I want to hear the bad things -- how wordy and vociferous I can be; how much I can belabor a point when I'm interested in it; or how, when I don't have anything to say, I can say so very little. Who the hell becomes a good writer if they're always good, never failing to meet expectations? (Probably exactly that person, but let's roll with such an assumption.) Suffice to say, it is a pleasure to have professors (along with my parents, Editors for Life - not to be outdone by Elisabeth of course, but she's the newbie)...rip into my writing. I want to be told I have to push myself. And over the course of the past 2 years I have been given great advice.
Through my essay to the Cambridge scholarship I learned just how negative effusive use of the forms of "to be" can be. It was through my rather existential investigation of "Six Characters in Search of an Author" and various other grammar papers for the same professor that I learned resting on even the most imaginary of laurels really hurts the creative, intellectual spirit. And even though I failed to get published, my Heart of Darkness paper very much instilled the need to tightly edit -- my sentences can wander; while such may be cool for fiction, to get a logical point across....so not cool! While I certainly don't apply all the things I have learned, the very fact I had to learn has been instrumental to how I write, or how I approach writing. So often writing existed just as a way to communicate with myself, now I get the chance to test how well I can express myself to others.
So I look forward to this experience, which falls in line behind many others. Even though it is scary. Even though I have been and surely will be frustrated with the lack of time I can give. The opportunity is fantastic, I get to learn how to write! Though such might sound rather naive, it is my hope. I write so that I can write better in the future. I know that writing as a career or even a hobby may exist solely in my mind. But, it's almost the one thing I'm doing that I really want to do. So I'll rock it as long as I can. Rock it like John Elway, 4th Down and 10, 15 yards to the endzone, Broncos down by 6. You know.
(Hence follows a rather circuitous path until my eventual discussion of writing.)
As I think of it, quite like Basil, I too want to smash something with a small tree. No master chef has screwed my orders of duck and no gay French chef is drunkenly macking on my Spanish monkey. However, bludgeoning a nice sapling might go well to putting a smile on my face. Not that I don't have a smile on my face as it is, but we all want more happiness and tarnation if a beaten tree wouldn't serve that great purpose.
Do you ever get depressed that there are only 12 epidsodes of "Fawlty Towers" -- upset that the comedic genius of some snarky (for you, hippy) Brit will never find laughter again in a hotel? Yeah, me too.
I feel the desire to post, yet I am seriously lacking in the realm of "what in the hey to talk about." So....anywho.
How great is Hugh Laurie?! Yeah, he would be cool to talk about when I am not in the depths of food laden not-caringness. Or something. I think I'll try to make myself more empathetic to the cares of this world and my own mind by working on some probability homework. And yet, I think it was that homework that actually put me in such a mood. Rancour worthy!
Also rancour worthy is a discussion I had yesterday with an English professor who is helping me massage a paper on Ophelia into an item worthy of publishing or conferencing. I have my doubts, both concerning the merits of the paper and the time I have to give to such an endeavor. Yet, he's enthusiastic and cute when he gets excited, so I'll try and do what I can. However, talk about cutting me down yesterday. I revised the paper for him and after the weekend he called me in with the command to "scratch it and start over." Fan-freakin'-tastic! Not only that but he told me the paper was a rather bad undergraduate paper. Shucks there matey, it's the same paper you gave me an A on last semester. Actually, I've always believed the paper sucks mightily and was ever so surprised when he marked me well on it. So that didn't both me too much.
In fact, the whole "smackdown" didn't bother me, other than I really don't have the time to invest in the revision. My writing, or myself and thus my writing, reaches very few people. So when I get the chance to hear someone critique my writing, I'm truly happy for the opportunity. Everyone says I write well and generally no one looks at me funny when I tell them I want to write fiction in another life (I take that as a good sign, do not delude me!). And yet, I don't want to rest on being the "good" writer in class. I want to hear the bad things -- how wordy and vociferous I can be; how much I can belabor a point when I'm interested in it; or how, when I don't have anything to say, I can say so very little. Who the hell becomes a good writer if they're always good, never failing to meet expectations? (Probably exactly that person, but let's roll with such an assumption.) Suffice to say, it is a pleasure to have professors (along with my parents, Editors for Life - not to be outdone by Elisabeth of course, but she's the newbie)...rip into my writing. I want to be told I have to push myself. And over the course of the past 2 years I have been given great advice.
Through my essay to the Cambridge scholarship I learned just how negative effusive use of the forms of "to be" can be. It was through my rather existential investigation of "Six Characters in Search of an Author" and various other grammar papers for the same professor that I learned resting on even the most imaginary of laurels really hurts the creative, intellectual spirit. And even though I failed to get published, my Heart of Darkness paper very much instilled the need to tightly edit -- my sentences can wander; while such may be cool for fiction, to get a logical point across....so not cool! While I certainly don't apply all the things I have learned, the very fact I had to learn has been instrumental to how I write, or how I approach writing. So often writing existed just as a way to communicate with myself, now I get the chance to test how well I can express myself to others.
So I look forward to this experience, which falls in line behind many others. Even though it is scary. Even though I have been and surely will be frustrated with the lack of time I can give. The opportunity is fantastic, I get to learn how to write! Though such might sound rather naive, it is my hope. I write so that I can write better in the future. I know that writing as a career or even a hobby may exist solely in my mind. But, it's almost the one thing I'm doing that I really want to do. So I'll rock it as long as I can. Rock it like John Elway, 4th Down and 10, 15 yards to the endzone, Broncos down by 6. You know.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Fox News Makes Me Laugh
Last night I found out that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are expecting. Not only that, I realized that Shephard Smith might very well be the funniest man in newscasting. (Jon Stewart is on an entirely different stratosphere. I worship him. And not just because he is funny. "Straight man in a funny coat." Comedy Central will rue the day he leaves for CBS.) During Smith's end of the hour's news, along came the recent baby news. Now while I only catch the first 20 minutes or so of his socalled G-Block to get a decent catch-up on the day's news (at times the least annoying news station, at times the most), last night I was cemented in place feeling much too exhausted to move. Then I heard it:
"Katies Holmes is very excited."
"Tom Cruise is very excited."
"America, are you excited?"
(faint but very clear, off camera) "wahoooooooooo!"
"We thought so."
Damn near the funniest thing I hear yesterday, and it came from Smith! I was amazed and simply delighted.
By the by, Fox News broadcasts a show which I consider to be one of the best on TV right now...within broadcast/political interpretation circles, I know, such a broad category. News Watch is a panel discussion consisting of journalists discussing how their fellow journalists have handled the news in the past week. (George Stephanopoulos is also similarly cool. Even if Sunday mornings are rushed I try and set aside some time to catch Meet the Press.) I really enjoy the format and composition of the show -- I don't know of any comparable show on right now. If anyone knows of one, I'd love to hear about it! I like that everyone is upfront about what Fox News is -- candor is forever appreciated. There is no doubt that Fox has a Right or Conservative bias. (No shit there, Sherlock.) And while I ignore shows that only serve to underline such a bias, News Watch, I believe, manages to break the mold of that bias. Maybe not all the way, but I greatly appreciate what it tries to do.
While I could never suffer doing the grunt work to become a journalist, the appeal of commentary and anaylsis is fundamental and strong. So, I am delighted by any opportunity to get a glimpse of a world so influential in our society.
Reminder: Smith, the snarky, pretentious bastard from Fox, is funny! But still a bastard. And pretentious. Don't forget snarky. But I like snarky. How conflicting.
"Katies Holmes is very excited."
"Tom Cruise is very excited."
"America, are you excited?"
(faint but very clear, off camera) "wahoooooooooo!"
"We thought so."
Damn near the funniest thing I hear yesterday, and it came from Smith! I was amazed and simply delighted.
By the by, Fox News broadcasts a show which I consider to be one of the best on TV right now...within broadcast/political interpretation circles, I know, such a broad category. News Watch is a panel discussion consisting of journalists discussing how their fellow journalists have handled the news in the past week. (George Stephanopoulos is also similarly cool. Even if Sunday mornings are rushed I try and set aside some time to catch Meet the Press.) I really enjoy the format and composition of the show -- I don't know of any comparable show on right now. If anyone knows of one, I'd love to hear about it! I like that everyone is upfront about what Fox News is -- candor is forever appreciated. There is no doubt that Fox has a Right or Conservative bias. (No shit there, Sherlock.) And while I ignore shows that only serve to underline such a bias, News Watch, I believe, manages to break the mold of that bias. Maybe not all the way, but I greatly appreciate what it tries to do.
While I could never suffer doing the grunt work to become a journalist, the appeal of commentary and anaylsis is fundamental and strong. So, I am delighted by any opportunity to get a glimpse of a world so influential in our society.
Reminder: Smith, the snarky, pretentious bastard from Fox, is funny! But still a bastard. And pretentious. Don't forget snarky. But I like snarky. How conflicting.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
O gentle Faustus!
I'm sure I made Christopher Marlowe proud.
Last semester I had a dilemma: I had to excise my oral intensive requirement and I had to sate my burning to desire to test my acting skills. Solution? Acting 120! We have three projects over the course of the semester, the first being a short, 30 second skit advertising some project. I pimped a service offer to "take care of" unworthy drivers. The second project I just completed and am very proud of. We were to perform a 2 minute monologue of our choice. After perusing the works of Shakespeare and Milton, I finally settled on Doctor Faustus by Marlowe. Faustus is, perhaps, my favorite play because of the discourse of good and evil knowledge and the ambiguity (I consider it ambiguity) of the good doctor's death. I chose to play the Old Man who appears just before the Devil comes to claim Faustus' soul. [what was it, Erin, does the apostrophe possessive include the 's' after a vowel preceding the end 's'?] He has about 80 lines or so which takes care of the 2 minute mark or thereabouts.
I had two chances to perform for my professor, Annie-Laurie (who, interestingly enough, is the wife of an Econ professor - i'm always fascinated by the juxtaposition of life and love). The first was a exploratory piece. I rushed through my lines and didn't know much what to do with a staff that I brought in to aid the performance. Somewhat typical, as I am horrendously afraid of and unable to adequately speak in public. I get so atrociously nervous in most situations that my body and voice literally shake . I had one week to work on the piece until I had my performance in front of the class. I focused on knowing the lines cold and studying the rise and fall of the emotions and tones. The Old Man is quite ethereal but rife with passion and I enjoyed exploring the range within myself. There was also a short paper which accompanied the performance which facilitated the exploration of the character. The paper helped in solidifying certain thoughts and assumptions both about the character and how I was playing him. I found a white sheet to wrap myself in, sandals, and my trusty staff and got ready to perform. It went swimmingly!
I was quite pleased with the result. I hardly remember the performance. It seems to me that means that the lines and the emotion came more naturally than they had been before. And that's so cool! My classmates were very kind in their words and I was very appreciate of the way they responded. Even of more delight, my professor seemed pleased with the improvements I made and the task I tackled. I do not delude myself with thoughts of gracing any kind of stage, but it was a pleasure to have that one moment - one pure grasp of a character that was not myself but who I could find myself in. I had so much fun with the entire escapade and I'm so thankful to have had the opportunity. Acting has always been the one thing that I've never tried but ever so much wanted to. So while I may never do it again, I can say that I have once taken it and taken so much pleasure from it.
: )
Last semester I had a dilemma: I had to excise my oral intensive requirement and I had to sate my burning to desire to test my acting skills. Solution? Acting 120! We have three projects over the course of the semester, the first being a short, 30 second skit advertising some project. I pimped a service offer to "take care of" unworthy drivers. The second project I just completed and am very proud of. We were to perform a 2 minute monologue of our choice. After perusing the works of Shakespeare and Milton, I finally settled on Doctor Faustus by Marlowe. Faustus is, perhaps, my favorite play because of the discourse of good and evil knowledge and the ambiguity (I consider it ambiguity) of the good doctor's death. I chose to play the Old Man who appears just before the Devil comes to claim Faustus' soul. [what was it, Erin, does the apostrophe possessive include the 's' after a vowel preceding the end 's'?] He has about 80 lines or so which takes care of the 2 minute mark or thereabouts.
I had two chances to perform for my professor, Annie-Laurie (who, interestingly enough, is the wife of an Econ professor - i'm always fascinated by the juxtaposition of life and love). The first was a exploratory piece. I rushed through my lines and didn't know much what to do with a staff that I brought in to aid the performance. Somewhat typical, as I am horrendously afraid of and unable to adequately speak in public. I get so atrociously nervous in most situations that my body and voice literally shake . I had one week to work on the piece until I had my performance in front of the class. I focused on knowing the lines cold and studying the rise and fall of the emotions and tones. The Old Man is quite ethereal but rife with passion and I enjoyed exploring the range within myself. There was also a short paper which accompanied the performance which facilitated the exploration of the character. The paper helped in solidifying certain thoughts and assumptions both about the character and how I was playing him. I found a white sheet to wrap myself in, sandals, and my trusty staff and got ready to perform. It went swimmingly!
I was quite pleased with the result. I hardly remember the performance. It seems to me that means that the lines and the emotion came more naturally than they had been before. And that's so cool! My classmates were very kind in their words and I was very appreciate of the way they responded. Even of more delight, my professor seemed pleased with the improvements I made and the task I tackled. I do not delude myself with thoughts of gracing any kind of stage, but it was a pleasure to have that one moment - one pure grasp of a character that was not myself but who I could find myself in. I had so much fun with the entire escapade and I'm so thankful to have had the opportunity. Acting has always been the one thing that I've never tried but ever so much wanted to. So while I may never do it again, I can say that I have once taken it and taken so much pleasure from it.
: )
Saturday, October 01, 2005
The greatest snack....Ever
When I was younger, my father used to call me a Carebear. Though I bore not much of a resemblance to those cute, fuzzy, evil-fighting creatures, by wearing red galoshes and a blue headband I became the embodiment of Disney goodness to him. Suffice to say, I was an odd child. I'm only now reclaiming my oddity after awkward years of normalcy. In this journey of rediscovery a vital part of my childhood has finally come back. Apples and peanut butter! Yes, my friends, perhaps the greatest thing to have ever touched my lips (apart from my beautiful woman, of course) is a slice of apple laced and lathered with creamy peanut butter. Joy and heaven on earth! Not only does this hedonistic combination deliver an orgasmic explosion into one's mouth, you get to play with a knife to cut the apple! And knives are just freakin' cool The wet flesh of the apple that turns to sticky juice, amazing sight to see. To celebrate the immortal wisdom of Joey..."what's not to like? peanut butter? goooood. apples? gooood. peanut butter and apples? goooood!"
The foot guy informed me yesterday that I have already passed the point of needing any special walking boot or the like. So I have an appointment in November, 5 weeks from now to make sure everything has healed properly. Good news, but it is hard to fathom not running for another 5 weeks. Damion, I used to trip on air. So, yes, I am a clumsy shit : )
I hate pecans. $%#$%
"After all, what's love without a violin playing goat?"
The foot guy informed me yesterday that I have already passed the point of needing any special walking boot or the like. So I have an appointment in November, 5 weeks from now to make sure everything has healed properly. Good news, but it is hard to fathom not running for another 5 weeks. Damion, I used to trip on air. So, yes, I am a clumsy shit : )
I hate pecans. $%#$%
"After all, what's love without a violin playing goat?"
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