Act III
I go back to tell St. Peter I am ready to speak with my third person. However, instead of St. Peter in the booth, I find Charlie Chaplin.
Me: Hello?
Charlie: Oh, good. It's you. I was waiting for you to come. Peter said you would.
Me: You can...talk?
Charlie: Of course, I can. Did you think I couldn't?
Me: Oh, it isn't that. I've just only seen you in the silent films though, so it's odd to hear you speak. By the way, has anyone ever told you how different you look when you aren't in black and white?
Charlie: Excuse me?
Me: I mean, you're just in white now, not in black and white. And why don't you have a mustache anymore?
Charlie: (whispering) You know, facial hair is kind of a delicate topic up here. They actually only allow full beards or clean-shaven faces for the men. I guess they let a few men in with trashy stashes a long time ago, but word got around that pedophiles had broken past security. They had to shave and it's been this way ever since.
Me: I understand.
Charlie: By the way, did you hear what happened earlier?
Me: No, I was busy. Talking to John Wayne, you know.
Charlie: Well, here's the scoop. We've been having to turn away people in the last few hours.
Me: Why?
Charlie: Uh, let's just call it the "looking back" phenomenon.
Me: What does that mean?
Charlie: Well, the main idea is this: people come to the gates and want to come in. And we try to accommodate them. However, as soon as they find out what they can't do in heaven, or what they have to give up, they decide they don't want to come in. This job can be fairly disheartening during those times. Especially considering the things they won't leave behind. Not even for heavenly bliss.
Me: For example?
Charlie: Well, today, the Verizon guy (you know, the nerdy one with the glasses) brought his whole network up here and wanted to come in. But as soon as he was through the gates, he said, "Can you hear me now? Sorry...sorry, what was that? Um, hello? Hello? Shoot, they can't hear me. Must not be a tower around here." He didn't stay, and neither did any of his network, except for the construction workers. Heaven knows why, but they did.
Me: That's too bad.
Charlie: Mm-hmm. And then of course there were the Gatlin Brothers.
Me: What happened to them?
Charlie: Peter told them we didn't have beer in heaven. The thought of prohibition sent them into withdrawals, and they split. It's really a shame. I mean, I'm not a fan of their music (I prefer ragtime) but I wish they had stayed. We'll take as many as we can find, if they're willing to observe the rules.
Me: Anyone else have a problem?
Charlie: Sure. All the time. Clark Gable was in here the other day. He came up to the booth and handed me his list. I said, "Mr. Gable, my mother is a huge admirer of yours." He said, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a d---." I said, "Sorry, Mr. Gable, but you can't say that in heaven." He said, "Really? That's my best line. Forget this place." I kept his list though. Just for the autograph. I told my mom, and she cried for about ten years.
Me: Wow. That is some story.
Charlie: You have no idea. But the worst thing happened today. Michael Jackson showed up.
Me: Michael Jackson? The Michael Jackson?
Charlie: Yep. He said it was great to be here and he loved the decor. After all, white is his favorite color. We were fitting him for his robe, and he said, "What's with this robe?" Raphael told him that we all have to wear them. MJ got upset because he didn't want to give up his red jacket. We kept trying to convince him that he should relinquish it. Raphael even told him how great white looks on him (which we all thought would work), but MJ didn't want to listen. He moon-walked out of here so fast, I didn't even see him go.
Me: Oh, man, I'm sorry.
Charlie: Yeah, it makes this job really hard some times. Not to mention it would have been amazing to have the actual Michael Jackson at Michael Jackson Appreciation Night, but I guess that's why we keep records.
Me: What good do records do?
Charlie: Oh, not the paper kind; I mean the vinyl kind. LPs and 45s have great sound quality and they never get scratched up here. We like to listen to Thriller a lot. Do you know the Thriller dance?
Me: It's been a while, but I think so.
Charlie: Good, you should come. It's...well, I guess you would say it's at 8:00 p.m. on Friday, but we don't really keep time up here, you know. It's more out of habit or convenience when we do. And now you probably have heard enough from me. Who are you going to see next?
Me: It's on the list.
Charlie: Oh, yes. Let's see. (checks the list) Oh, this is nice. You want to see Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.
Me: Well, I was a big fan during my teenage years. Just though it might be cool to hang out a little and talk.
Charlie: He's a nice guy. I'll have him over in a jiffy. Just a word to the wise: When The Rocks, no one else can. Have a great chat!
Forty years later, The Rock finally shows up.
Rock: Finally, The Rock has come back to...the interview room!
Me: Hi, Mr. The Rock.
Rock: So, what in the blue heaven do you want to talk to The Rock about?
Me: I just wanted....
Rock: It doesn't matter what you wanted to talk to The Rock about!
Me: Okay...then, I really...I, uh, okay...
Rock: Do you stutter? The Rock wants to know if you stutter. Tell The Rock if you stutter!
Me: No, I just...
Rock: Stop wasting The Rock's time then!
Me: Alright, Rock. I won't waste your time anymore.
Rock: Look, let the Rock tell you a little something. The Rock says this, alright? The Rock says this. The Rock says you should get a nice tall glass, fill it full of ice, and make yourself a nice tall glass of shut-up juice! And The Rock says this too. The Rock says you need to go back to St. Peter and ask for someone else to talk to, jabroney!
Me: Can...you even say that in heaven?
Rock: Jabroneys like you can't. The Rock can. You see, The Rock has a license to use the word "jabroney" anytime The Rock wants to use it, and if The Rock hears someone using The Rock's word without The Rock's say-so, The Rock can lay the smackdown on all of your candy...apples!
Me: I guess you couldn't get a license for that word, huh?
Rock: No, The Rock couldn't get a license for that word. You wanna know why? Because The Rock didn't want a license for that word. The Rock prefers to use euphemisms because The Rock thinks they're cool! If you smell...
Me: Um, can I say something?
Rock: Did you just interrupt The Rock? The Rock does not like being interupted. The Rock is the most electrifying man in sports entertainment and The Rock will not be interrupted by you, you beady-eyed, whisker-biscuit, bald-headed...guy! So why don't you go back to Supercuts and get your five dollars back, jabroney! If you smell what The Rock is cooking!
The Rock walks out of the room and slams the door so hard that The Rock almost pulls the door off of the hinges. Not that The Rock meant to slam the door, but The Rock is just so strong that The Rock couldn't help himself. Okay, I think I do need a glass of shut-up juice.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Five People You'd Like to Meet in Heaven: Episode 2
Act II
Having just finished my interview with Jimmy Stewart, I make my way back to the booth to see St. Peter
Me: Um, excuse me?
Peter: Yes? Oh, it's you again. How was your chat with Jimmy?
Me: Just fine, thank you. I'm ready to meet my second person now.
Peter: Alright. (begins looking through the papers on his desk) I know I put it in here somewhere. (opens and closes the drawers in his desk) I'm always losing things, you know.
Me: I hadn't noticed.
Peter: (holding the paper aloft) Ah! Here it is. Now it says you want to see....John Wayne.
Me: Yes, sir.
Peter: Well, that's going to take a little bit of time. He's out riding fences with Clint Eastwood and Gary Cooper. Checking for break-ins and vandalism and such.
Me: Vandalism? Break-ins? But who would....
Peter: Well, Molech and his gang up to no good ever since they left heaven a long time ago, but recently I think they've gotten tired of hell and want to try heaven again. John, Clint, and Gary are responsible for keeping them out of heaven and away from the walls. And when Molech and his boys are unsuccessful, which they always are, they generally try to spray paint the outer walls. You should have seen some of the dirty pictures they put on there last week. (wipes a tear) And they were such good boys once upon a time; I hate to see them ending up like this, but there's not a whole lot that can be done about it now. More's the pity.
Me: How soon will John be back?
Peter: A while maybe you should just listen to some music in the interview room while you wait.
Me: What kind of music do you have?
Peter: Oh, some of this, and some of that. We have assorted hymns, Handel's Messiah, Pink Floyd, anything from Bach....
Me: Wait a minute. Pink Floyd?
Peter: Of course.
Me: But how?
Peter: Have you ever listened to Pink Floyd?
Me: Yes.
Peter: Didn't "Echoes" and "Marooned" make you feel like you were in heaven?
Me: Come to think of it...
Peter: Exactly. Their only problem was getting here. Turns out they couldn't tell heaven from hell. So, Jacob went out and told them to come on in. Now they really have a great gig in the sky.
Me: Does that happen very often?
Peter: Does what happen very often?
Me: Needing to go out and bring people in?
Peter: Not really, but every once in a while it's necessary. A couple weeks ago Raphael saw Brett Favre out there trying to decide what he wanted to do.
Me: Is he here now?
Peter: Heaven no! He's still out there by himself, trying to make his mind, halted between two opinions. Most lukewarm quarterback I've ever seen.
Me: Okay, well then, I'll just be back in the room until John shows up.
Peter: Good boy. I'll send him in when he gets here.
Two thousand years later, the door opens. In walks a saddle-sore John Wayne.
John: Hello, pilgrim. You wanna see me?
Me: Yes, sir, Mr. Wayne.
John: Mr. Wayne? Mr. Wayne is Batman's father. You can call me John.
Me: Okey-dokey, John.
John: So, whaddya wanna see me about, pilgrim?
Me: I just have a couple questions for you.
John: Yeah?
Me: Why did you change your name?
John: In the first place, Marion Robert Morrison wasn't very tough sounding. Second, when a young kid like me has the initials MM, the other kids are bound to make up nicknames, which they did. When I turned six years old, they called me 6 millimeter. When I turned nine, I was M 'n M. And when turned twelve, they all called me "Mm-mm, good." So I changed it to something that couldn't be so easily mocked. One kid kept calling me Marion, so I belted him in the mouth. Told him, "You can call me John, you can call me Johnny, you can me a dirty son of a saint, but if you ever call me Marion again I'll finish this fight." I never had to though. So what's your other question, pilgrim?
Me: What made you decide to allow your character to get killed in The Cowboys? I watched it the other day, and I had to shut my eyes when Bruce Dern was shooting you in the back?
John: That's an interesting question, pilgrim. It was a heaven of a tough choice to let myself be shot in the back by someone like Bruce, especially considering his role in Support Your Local Sheriff. However, I figured it was about time I tried something a little different. Some people didn't like it, but I like to think it made for a better story. Got away from the formula, you know?
Me: Yes, I know.
John: Did you like it?
Me: I guess so. I mean, I would have preferred if you had lived to the end, but it was certainly a new take on the John Wayne as Superhero ideal.
John: Well, thanks.
Me: No problem.
John: Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go back on patrol. Gotta keep those fence lines safe, pilgrim. Who knows? Maybe you'll be out there soon, too.
Me: I would like that.
John: So long, pilgrim.
Having just finished my interview with Jimmy Stewart, I make my way back to the booth to see St. Peter
Me: Um, excuse me?
Peter: Yes? Oh, it's you again. How was your chat with Jimmy?
Me: Just fine, thank you. I'm ready to meet my second person now.
Peter: Alright. (begins looking through the papers on his desk) I know I put it in here somewhere. (opens and closes the drawers in his desk) I'm always losing things, you know.
Me: I hadn't noticed.
Peter: (holding the paper aloft) Ah! Here it is. Now it says you want to see....John Wayne.
Me: Yes, sir.
Peter: Well, that's going to take a little bit of time. He's out riding fences with Clint Eastwood and Gary Cooper. Checking for break-ins and vandalism and such.
Me: Vandalism? Break-ins? But who would....
Peter: Well, Molech and his gang up to no good ever since they left heaven a long time ago, but recently I think they've gotten tired of hell and want to try heaven again. John, Clint, and Gary are responsible for keeping them out of heaven and away from the walls. And when Molech and his boys are unsuccessful, which they always are, they generally try to spray paint the outer walls. You should have seen some of the dirty pictures they put on there last week. (wipes a tear) And they were such good boys once upon a time; I hate to see them ending up like this, but there's not a whole lot that can be done about it now. More's the pity.
Me: How soon will John be back?
Peter: A while maybe you should just listen to some music in the interview room while you wait.
Me: What kind of music do you have?
Peter: Oh, some of this, and some of that. We have assorted hymns, Handel's Messiah, Pink Floyd, anything from Bach....
Me: Wait a minute. Pink Floyd?
Peter: Of course.
Me: But how?
Peter: Have you ever listened to Pink Floyd?
Me: Yes.
Peter: Didn't "Echoes" and "Marooned" make you feel like you were in heaven?
Me: Come to think of it...
Peter: Exactly. Their only problem was getting here. Turns out they couldn't tell heaven from hell. So, Jacob went out and told them to come on in. Now they really have a great gig in the sky.
Me: Does that happen very often?
Peter: Does what happen very often?
Me: Needing to go out and bring people in?
Peter: Not really, but every once in a while it's necessary. A couple weeks ago Raphael saw Brett Favre out there trying to decide what he wanted to do.
Me: Is he here now?
Peter: Heaven no! He's still out there by himself, trying to make his mind, halted between two opinions. Most lukewarm quarterback I've ever seen.
Me: Okay, well then, I'll just be back in the room until John shows up.
Peter: Good boy. I'll send him in when he gets here.
Two thousand years later, the door opens. In walks a saddle-sore John Wayne.
John: Hello, pilgrim. You wanna see me?
Me: Yes, sir, Mr. Wayne.
John: Mr. Wayne? Mr. Wayne is Batman's father. You can call me John.
Me: Okey-dokey, John.
John: So, whaddya wanna see me about, pilgrim?
Me: I just have a couple questions for you.
John: Yeah?
Me: Why did you change your name?
John: In the first place, Marion Robert Morrison wasn't very tough sounding. Second, when a young kid like me has the initials MM, the other kids are bound to make up nicknames, which they did. When I turned six years old, they called me 6 millimeter. When I turned nine, I was M 'n M. And when turned twelve, they all called me "Mm-mm, good." So I changed it to something that couldn't be so easily mocked. One kid kept calling me Marion, so I belted him in the mouth. Told him, "You can call me John, you can call me Johnny, you can me a dirty son of a saint, but if you ever call me Marion again I'll finish this fight." I never had to though. So what's your other question, pilgrim?
Me: What made you decide to allow your character to get killed in The Cowboys? I watched it the other day, and I had to shut my eyes when Bruce Dern was shooting you in the back?
John: That's an interesting question, pilgrim. It was a heaven of a tough choice to let myself be shot in the back by someone like Bruce, especially considering his role in Support Your Local Sheriff. However, I figured it was about time I tried something a little different. Some people didn't like it, but I like to think it made for a better story. Got away from the formula, you know?
Me: Yes, I know.
John: Did you like it?
Me: I guess so. I mean, I would have preferred if you had lived to the end, but it was certainly a new take on the John Wayne as Superhero ideal.
John: Well, thanks.
Me: No problem.
John: Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go back on patrol. Gotta keep those fence lines safe, pilgrim. Who knows? Maybe you'll be out there soon, too.
Me: I would like that.
John: So long, pilgrim.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Rah Rah Rah
Well, today my littlest sister had her final performance/competition as a member of her cheer squad, and she did a great job. She even received a medal.
Now, this cheer competition took place at a fairly large gathering in the basketball auditorium at Northwest Nazarene University. I'm not certain how many other squad of different sizes and ages were in attendance, but suffice it to say there were many. If I were to make a guess I would say there were roughly 200-300 perky adolescent girls from all over Idaho and Utah. I attended so as to support my sister and her squad, but prior to leaving for the competition I had no idea what I would be in for once we arrived there.
In short, it was everything I had expected (unfortunately) and much, much more (even more unfortunately). Despite my apparently bad attitude about the whole experience, I did make some interesting observations about the event.
Basically, for four straight hours the air was filled piercing shrieks and popular (though not with me) music. And when I say music, I mean...well, let me put it this way: I have one Katy Perry song ("Hot 'n Cold") on my Ipod. It has now been erased so that I will never have to listen to that song again, even by accident. Further, if Lady Gaga were, by some freak chance (and yes, I use the word freak purposely), on my Ipod, she would quickly meet the same fate. I'm pretty certain that each squad used the same mix of songs in different orders because I heard more Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Backstreet Boys, and other such (eesh!) music than I have ever cared to in my entire earthly existence. I heard about ten seconds of CCR's "Travelin' Band" and five seconds of "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard, but other than that, the music selection was enough to make me wish I had taken Odysseus's advice and stuffed my ears with wax (see Homer's The Odyssey).
However, it was interesting to see how many of the mothers in the audience (and there were quite a few) who happened to be dyed brunette (I was looking around a lot because the cheer performances were not exactly riveting). I'm not sure if it's a cheer-mom trend or if they merely want to be involved with cheerleading while simultaneously distancing themselves from the--how can I put this--blonde reputation carried on by the (gulp) sport called cheerleading. All I know is this: I have not seen that many brunette dye jobs in one location for a long time. Perhaps ever. But that was the least of the oddities I witnessed.
I saw one girl out in the corridor practicing a butterfly routine (she flitted over and over for about five minutes from one side of the hall to the concession stand and back again), but I think she was trying to work the hyperactivity out of her system because she never performed it in front of the audience.
Another girl could not bear to separated from her cellular device, but she needed her hands free while she carried her large bucket of popcorn, so she was walking around with her phone stuck halfway into the waistband of her cheer uniform.
A coach, of all things, borrowed a bow from one of the girls on her squad (I believe that squad was from Utah), entered the jump-off competition at the end, and, pretending to a member of her own squad, performed against all of the little girls who were actually a part of the competition. No one caught it though, and she walked away with a medal. Now that's some crazy competitive spirit.
Oh, and then there was all the wedgie-picking. Everytime I looked around the room, there was another performer adjusting her spankies. Some were red, some were black, and some were zebra-striped, but they all had one thing in common: they were riding up.
Also, some of the girls (ahem, many) were wearing so much makeup one had to think they were one of three things: child prostitutes, clowns, or cheerleaders. Since prostitution is illegal in Idaho and there weren't any sad clown faces, I could only guess that they were cheerleaders.
Finally, I noticed a woman (a spectator, not a performer) farther down the bleachers who was wearing a black hoody with a gold sequined "z" on the back, along with what I believe was her own cheer uniform: a glittering gold mini-skirt with leopard print spankies showing and matching snow boots. Even I, with my limited sense of style, know that it is taboo to go out in the world (nay, even to stay at home) wearing something like that. I guess the power of the cheer spirit must have possessed her body because I don't know what else could have possessed her to show herself in public that way.
To top it off, we had to pay to get in to this event. Ten bucks a person. The nerve some people have. Taking advantage of me and mine just because I wanted to support my sister in her recreational interests. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
I mean, um, Go, team, go?
Now, this cheer competition took place at a fairly large gathering in the basketball auditorium at Northwest Nazarene University. I'm not certain how many other squad of different sizes and ages were in attendance, but suffice it to say there were many. If I were to make a guess I would say there were roughly 200-300 perky adolescent girls from all over Idaho and Utah. I attended so as to support my sister and her squad, but prior to leaving for the competition I had no idea what I would be in for once we arrived there.
In short, it was everything I had expected (unfortunately) and much, much more (even more unfortunately). Despite my apparently bad attitude about the whole experience, I did make some interesting observations about the event.
Basically, for four straight hours the air was filled piercing shrieks and popular (though not with me) music. And when I say music, I mean...well, let me put it this way: I have one Katy Perry song ("Hot 'n Cold") on my Ipod. It has now been erased so that I will never have to listen to that song again, even by accident. Further, if Lady Gaga were, by some freak chance (and yes, I use the word freak purposely), on my Ipod, she would quickly meet the same fate. I'm pretty certain that each squad used the same mix of songs in different orders because I heard more Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Backstreet Boys, and other such (eesh!) music than I have ever cared to in my entire earthly existence. I heard about ten seconds of CCR's "Travelin' Band" and five seconds of "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard, but other than that, the music selection was enough to make me wish I had taken Odysseus's advice and stuffed my ears with wax (see Homer's The Odyssey).
However, it was interesting to see how many of the mothers in the audience (and there were quite a few) who happened to be dyed brunette (I was looking around a lot because the cheer performances were not exactly riveting). I'm not sure if it's a cheer-mom trend or if they merely want to be involved with cheerleading while simultaneously distancing themselves from the--how can I put this--blonde reputation carried on by the (gulp) sport called cheerleading. All I know is this: I have not seen that many brunette dye jobs in one location for a long time. Perhaps ever. But that was the least of the oddities I witnessed.
I saw one girl out in the corridor practicing a butterfly routine (she flitted over and over for about five minutes from one side of the hall to the concession stand and back again), but I think she was trying to work the hyperactivity out of her system because she never performed it in front of the audience.
Another girl could not bear to separated from her cellular device, but she needed her hands free while she carried her large bucket of popcorn, so she was walking around with her phone stuck halfway into the waistband of her cheer uniform.
A coach, of all things, borrowed a bow from one of the girls on her squad (I believe that squad was from Utah), entered the jump-off competition at the end, and, pretending to a member of her own squad, performed against all of the little girls who were actually a part of the competition. No one caught it though, and she walked away with a medal. Now that's some crazy competitive spirit.
Oh, and then there was all the wedgie-picking. Everytime I looked around the room, there was another performer adjusting her spankies. Some were red, some were black, and some were zebra-striped, but they all had one thing in common: they were riding up.
Also, some of the girls (ahem, many) were wearing so much makeup one had to think they were one of three things: child prostitutes, clowns, or cheerleaders. Since prostitution is illegal in Idaho and there weren't any sad clown faces, I could only guess that they were cheerleaders.
Finally, I noticed a woman (a spectator, not a performer) farther down the bleachers who was wearing a black hoody with a gold sequined "z" on the back, along with what I believe was her own cheer uniform: a glittering gold mini-skirt with leopard print spankies showing and matching snow boots. Even I, with my limited sense of style, know that it is taboo to go out in the world (nay, even to stay at home) wearing something like that. I guess the power of the cheer spirit must have possessed her body because I don't know what else could have possessed her to show herself in public that way.
To top it off, we had to pay to get in to this event. Ten bucks a person. The nerve some people have. Taking advantage of me and mine just because I wanted to support my sister in her recreational interests. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
I mean, um, Go, team, go?
Friday, January 28, 2011
The Five People You'd Like to Meet in Heaven: Episode 1
Mitch Albom's book The Five People You Meet in Heaven begins with the death of an old maintenance man named Eddie. Eddie goes to heaven where he meets five people who teach him valuable lessons about sacrifice and other such things.
I do not intend to argue with anyone about who we get to meet on the other side of the Acheron, but the thought did come to me that instead of being assigned to select individuals, I would like to choose the five people I chat with myself. After all, if, by some chance, we retain an iota of what we are here, we're still going to want to make our own decisions every once in a while. This is one of the decisions I want to make. I will keep the number of people I choose to meet in heaven at five, though, and the choices will still be based on my admiration and respect for them and the influence they have been to me.
Now, think for a minute. Think about heaven. Think about dogmatic descriptions of the place--if you must--or your own personal perspective on the organization and landscape of Elysia. For the sake of ease however, let's just say there is a toll booth and St. Peter is in it, raising and lowering the gates. Until you give Peter your list of five people to speak, he won't let you through.
The Five People I'd Like to Meet in Heaven: Act 1
Peter: Got your list?
Me: Yes, sir. Right here.
Peter: Let me see. Hmm (he scans the paper). I see you hand-wrote this.
Me: Yes, sir. I did hand-write it, sir.
Peter: Sure wish I could read it. Oh drat, I need my glasses.
Me: (waiting as he searches his pockets, I begin to tap my foot) I sure would like to get into heaven today, sir. If it's not inconvenient.
Peter: (chuckles) You talking the 24-hour or the 1,000-year kind?
Me: (smiling) You choose, sir, but I don't think it will take you 1,000 years to find your glasses. They're on your head.
Peter: (pulls his glasses onto his nose) Well, that's much easier to read, isn't it? Alright, you want to...hmm...this is interesting...
Me: What's interesting, sir?
Peter: Your fifth choice is Elvis Presley.
Me: Is there something wrong with that?
Peter: There's nothing wrong with it exactly, but...
Me: But what, sir?
Peter: Well, ever since that 8.6 earthquake hit Las Vegas, we've been having new batches of Elvis impersonators running around heaven like you wouldn't believe. Now we're not sure which one is the right one. Is there any way you could cross him out and pick someone else?
Me: Can I think about while I'm talking to the other four people on my list, sir?
Peter: Sure thing, kid. Now...let's see...you want to see Jimmy Stewart first, do you?
Me: Yes, sir.
Peter: Well, if you will just step over into this room right here, I'll send Gabriel over to fetch...oh wait, I forgot. Jimmy's on usher duty today. He has to welcome all the new arrivals, you know.
Me: Can someone else take his place for a while? I would really like to speak with him.
Peter: I'll see what I can do. (he yells to a fellow angel) Hey, Raphael, you're the usher coordinator today, aren't you?
Raphael: Yes, I am.
Peter: Can you find someone that can relieve Jimmy for a few minutes? This kid really wants to talk to him.
Raphael: The only other one that can handle it is George Burns, and he's taking a smoke break.
Peter: We don't take smoke breaks. We don't even have smokes; this is heaven.
Raphael: I know that. You know that. Even George knows that. He just does it for the memories. It's the same reason he stands at the gates and says "Welcome to heaven. I'm George Burns" and goes into one of his monologues.
Peter: Well, can't Meatloaf do it?
Raphael: Sorry, but no. The last time he did it, he started singing "Heaven Can Wait" and there was a big traffic jam outside the gates. I told him to shut the heaven up but he couldn't hear me.
Peter: (sighs) Alright then, just do what you can. (to me) If you will kindly step into this room, we'll have Jimmy over here in a little while. Thank you. Next please. (to next arrival) Ah, Mickey Rooney, it's nice to see you. Sure took you a while to get here, didn't it?
An hour later, I am still sitting at one end of a long wooden table in an interrogation room, half-expecting Jack Bauer to pop in any moment and ask, "Where did you stash the other nuclear devi....oh, sorry, I was expecting someone else. My bad!" This must be where God takes confessions, I think.
Finally, the door opens. There stands Jimmy Stewart.
Me: (shaking his hand) Mr. Stewart, it's a real pleasure to meet you, sir.
Jimmy: Y-y-you can...you can stow the formalities, son. I-I-I'm just Jimmy to those who...who..who know me.
Me: Alright, Jimmy. I'd be glad to consider you a friend.
Jimmy: I-I-I didn't say...I didn't say that we'd be friends; I just said that...that people who know me refer to me as...as...as Jimmy. Y-you might say we're a-acquaintances, right?
Me: Right, sir.
Jimmy: Now, wha...what did you...what did you want to speak to me about? I-I-I am a busy angel now, you know. Have to...have to greet people when they come in so...so if we can hurry this up, I sure would be...sure would be grateful. Got a...got a lot of people to meet out there. Most...most of 'em don't recognize me in this white getup, but once they do figure it out, well, well, they sure do...they sure do light up. That...that's when they get their halos, you know, that's...that's why they light up.
Me: Okay, Jimmy. I just want you to do one thing for me.
Jimmy: Well...well what is it?
Me: Can you tell me the story of how you met Harvey?
Jimmy: Well, isn't...isn't that interesting? Th-th-the other day, Harvey came to me and asked me the same if I remember that night.
Me: Do you?
Jimmy: Of...of course, I do. Now...now let's see. "I'd just put Ed Hickey into a taxi. Ed had been mixing his rye with his gin, and I just felt that he needed conveying. Well, anyway, I was walking down along the street and I heard this voice saying, 'Good evening, Mr. Dowd.' Well, I turned around and here was this big six-foot rabbit leaning up against a lamp-post. Well, I thought nothing of that because when you've lived in a town as long as I've lived in this one, you get used to the fact that everybody knows your name. And naturally I went over to chat with him. And he said to me... he said, 'Ed Hickey was a little spiffed this evening, or could I be mistaken?' Well, of course, he was not mistaken. I think the world and all of Ed, but he was spiffed. Well, we talked like that for awhile and then I said to him, I said, 'You have the advantage on me. You know my name and I don't know yours.' And, and right back at me he said, 'What name do you like?' Well, I didn't even have to think twice about that. Harvey's always been my favorite name. So I said to him, I said, 'Harvey.' And, uh, this is the interesting thing about the whole thing: He said, 'What a coincidence. My name happens to be Harvey.'
Me: Thanks, Jimmy. I just want you to know how much I appreciate the influence you've had on me.
Jimmy: Well...well, thank you. "Here, let me give you one of my cards. Now if you should ever want to call me, call me at this number. Don't call me at that one, that's the old one."
Me: Thanks, Jimmy. By the way, can I use you as a reference? I'm going to need some kind of job up here eventually.
Jimmy: Can...can you...can you sing?
Me: Sure:
Jimmy: I...I never could sing. Donna Reed used to tell me that. All the time. Even "Buffalo Gals" didn't sound right when I was singing it. But if you want to tell Mozart that I sent you for an audition, go right ahead. I guarantee you, you'll...you'll...you'll end up polishing stars like Gordon McCrae in Carousel.
Me: Is he a star polisher?
Jimmy: No. He...he's in the choir. He...he's too vi-vibrado for me, but Mozart seems to...to like him...like him a lot. Good...good luck to you though.
Me: Thanks for talking to me, Jimmy. No matter how many people try to imitate you--and there have been and continue to be many--you truly are and forever will be inimitable.
(Note: all quotes are take from Jimmy Stewart film Harvey)
I do not intend to argue with anyone about who we get to meet on the other side of the Acheron, but the thought did come to me that instead of being assigned to select individuals, I would like to choose the five people I chat with myself. After all, if, by some chance, we retain an iota of what we are here, we're still going to want to make our own decisions every once in a while. This is one of the decisions I want to make. I will keep the number of people I choose to meet in heaven at five, though, and the choices will still be based on my admiration and respect for them and the influence they have been to me.
Now, think for a minute. Think about heaven. Think about dogmatic descriptions of the place--if you must--or your own personal perspective on the organization and landscape of Elysia. For the sake of ease however, let's just say there is a toll booth and St. Peter is in it, raising and lowering the gates. Until you give Peter your list of five people to speak, he won't let you through.
The Five People I'd Like to Meet in Heaven: Act 1
Peter: Got your list?
Me: Yes, sir. Right here.
Peter: Let me see. Hmm (he scans the paper). I see you hand-wrote this.
Me: Yes, sir. I did hand-write it, sir.
Peter: Sure wish I could read it. Oh drat, I need my glasses.
Me: (waiting as he searches his pockets, I begin to tap my foot) I sure would like to get into heaven today, sir. If it's not inconvenient.
Peter: (chuckles) You talking the 24-hour or the 1,000-year kind?
Me: (smiling) You choose, sir, but I don't think it will take you 1,000 years to find your glasses. They're on your head.
Peter: (pulls his glasses onto his nose) Well, that's much easier to read, isn't it? Alright, you want to...hmm...this is interesting...
Me: What's interesting, sir?
Peter: Your fifth choice is Elvis Presley.
Me: Is there something wrong with that?
Peter: There's nothing wrong with it exactly, but...
Me: But what, sir?
Peter: Well, ever since that 8.6 earthquake hit Las Vegas, we've been having new batches of Elvis impersonators running around heaven like you wouldn't believe. Now we're not sure which one is the right one. Is there any way you could cross him out and pick someone else?
Me: Can I think about while I'm talking to the other four people on my list, sir?
Peter: Sure thing, kid. Now...let's see...you want to see Jimmy Stewart first, do you?
Me: Yes, sir.
Peter: Well, if you will just step over into this room right here, I'll send Gabriel over to fetch...oh wait, I forgot. Jimmy's on usher duty today. He has to welcome all the new arrivals, you know.
Me: Can someone else take his place for a while? I would really like to speak with him.
Peter: I'll see what I can do. (he yells to a fellow angel) Hey, Raphael, you're the usher coordinator today, aren't you?
Raphael: Yes, I am.
Peter: Can you find someone that can relieve Jimmy for a few minutes? This kid really wants to talk to him.
Raphael: The only other one that can handle it is George Burns, and he's taking a smoke break.
Peter: We don't take smoke breaks. We don't even have smokes; this is heaven.
Raphael: I know that. You know that. Even George knows that. He just does it for the memories. It's the same reason he stands at the gates and says "Welcome to heaven. I'm George Burns" and goes into one of his monologues.
Peter: Well, can't Meatloaf do it?
Raphael: Sorry, but no. The last time he did it, he started singing "Heaven Can Wait" and there was a big traffic jam outside the gates. I told him to shut the heaven up but he couldn't hear me.
Peter: (sighs) Alright then, just do what you can. (to me) If you will kindly step into this room, we'll have Jimmy over here in a little while. Thank you. Next please. (to next arrival) Ah, Mickey Rooney, it's nice to see you. Sure took you a while to get here, didn't it?
An hour later, I am still sitting at one end of a long wooden table in an interrogation room, half-expecting Jack Bauer to pop in any moment and ask, "Where did you stash the other nuclear devi....oh, sorry, I was expecting someone else. My bad!" This must be where God takes confessions, I think.
Finally, the door opens. There stands Jimmy Stewart.
Me: (shaking his hand) Mr. Stewart, it's a real pleasure to meet you, sir.
Jimmy: Y-y-you can...you can stow the formalities, son. I-I-I'm just Jimmy to those who...who..who know me.
Me: Alright, Jimmy. I'd be glad to consider you a friend.
Jimmy: I-I-I didn't say...I didn't say that we'd be friends; I just said that...that people who know me refer to me as...as...as Jimmy. Y-you might say we're a-acquaintances, right?
Me: Right, sir.
Jimmy: Now, wha...what did you...what did you want to speak to me about? I-I-I am a busy angel now, you know. Have to...have to greet people when they come in so...so if we can hurry this up, I sure would be...sure would be grateful. Got a...got a lot of people to meet out there. Most...most of 'em don't recognize me in this white getup, but once they do figure it out, well, well, they sure do...they sure do light up. That...that's when they get their halos, you know, that's...that's why they light up.
Me: Okay, Jimmy. I just want you to do one thing for me.
Jimmy: Well...well what is it?
Me: Can you tell me the story of how you met Harvey?
Jimmy: Well, isn't...isn't that interesting? Th-th-the other day, Harvey came to me and asked me the same if I remember that night.
Me: Do you?
Jimmy: Of...of course, I do. Now...now let's see. "I'd just put Ed Hickey into a taxi. Ed had been mixing his rye with his gin, and I just felt that he needed conveying. Well, anyway, I was walking down along the street and I heard this voice saying, 'Good evening, Mr. Dowd.' Well, I turned around and here was this big six-foot rabbit leaning up against a lamp-post. Well, I thought nothing of that because when you've lived in a town as long as I've lived in this one, you get used to the fact that everybody knows your name. And naturally I went over to chat with him. And he said to me... he said, 'Ed Hickey was a little spiffed this evening, or could I be mistaken?' Well, of course, he was not mistaken. I think the world and all of Ed, but he was spiffed. Well, we talked like that for awhile and then I said to him, I said, 'You have the advantage on me. You know my name and I don't know yours.' And, and right back at me he said, 'What name do you like?' Well, I didn't even have to think twice about that. Harvey's always been my favorite name. So I said to him, I said, 'Harvey.' And, uh, this is the interesting thing about the whole thing: He said, 'What a coincidence. My name happens to be Harvey.'
Me: Thanks, Jimmy. I just want you to know how much I appreciate the influence you've had on me.
Jimmy: Well...well, thank you. "Here, let me give you one of my cards. Now if you should ever want to call me, call me at this number. Don't call me at that one, that's the old one."
Me: Thanks, Jimmy. By the way, can I use you as a reference? I'm going to need some kind of job up here eventually.
Jimmy: Can...can you...can you sing?
Me: Sure:
Jimmy: I...I never could sing. Donna Reed used to tell me that. All the time. Even "Buffalo Gals" didn't sound right when I was singing it. But if you want to tell Mozart that I sent you for an audition, go right ahead. I guarantee you, you'll...you'll...you'll end up polishing stars like Gordon McCrae in Carousel.
Me: Is he a star polisher?
Jimmy: No. He...he's in the choir. He...he's too vi-vibrado for me, but Mozart seems to...to like him...like him a lot. Good...good luck to you though.
Me: Thanks for talking to me, Jimmy. No matter how many people try to imitate you--and there have been and continue to be many--you truly are and forever will be inimitable.
(Note: all quotes are take from Jimmy Stewart film Harvey)
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Business and Book Reviews: Because of Winn-Dixie and Julie of the Wolves
Alright, before I get started, there a couple of things I would like to mention.
First of all, I would like to say thank you again to all of my readers who continue to visit this blog and read on a regular basis. It certainly makes it easier for me to keep up with daily posts when I know that someone in the world is reading them.
Second, if you have recently begun reading my blog, I would like to encourage you to go back to my older posts from November and December and read those too. I think you will enjoy them.
Third, please comment on what you read. Comments like yours are much appreciated because they help me see that you like or relate to the things I've written.
Well, that's all for business. Now, on to the book reviews.
Yesterday, I had a bit of time to read because I've recently finished revising a novel that's been in the works since last May, so that is no longer interfering with my reading time. I read two YA novels yesterday, both of which I thought were quite good.
Summary #1: Because of Winn-Dixie: This is a short novel recounting the fictional experiences of a young girl named India Opal Buloni, who goes by her middle name. She begins her story, which is set in a small Florida town where Opal and her father have recently moved, by relating how she met a dog in a grocery store, named him Winn-Dixie (the name of the grocery store), and took him home. Opal's father is a preacher, and her mother ran away when Opal was three. The entire story illustrates how one dog influenced her life, and the lives of the people Opal meets. What the story lacks in tension it makes up for in sweetness and character development and hilarity.
Summary #2: Julie of the Wolves: Julie is an Eskimo girl who runs away from a horrible marital relationship. She desires to go to San Francisco and see a girl with whom she has corresponded for some time. Instead, she becomes lost on the tundra and must use all of her instincts and knowledge to survive. However, she does not remain in solitude as she finds a pack of wolves, learns their mannerisms and methods of communication, and becomes a full-fledged member of their pack. She also tunes into her Eskimo roots and must finally decide if she still wishes to rejoin civilization with all of its conveniences, beauties, and savagery, or if she will hold to the old ways and be a true Eskimo. Though I will not tell you how the story ends, I can say that the tale does do something that other YA novels would not dream of: embrace reality.
Most other novels meant for children between 10-14 will give the story a happy and peaceful conclusion. Julie and the Wolves, on the other hand, presents the girl with a dilemma in which neither alternative is truly what she wants or feels like she needs. But she must make the choice regardless.
I will admit that it was refreshing to see a writer do something so different. However, I think that the story is really better suited for 15- to 18-year-olds. Regardless, I recommend both of them highly.
First of all, I would like to say thank you again to all of my readers who continue to visit this blog and read on a regular basis. It certainly makes it easier for me to keep up with daily posts when I know that someone in the world is reading them.
Second, if you have recently begun reading my blog, I would like to encourage you to go back to my older posts from November and December and read those too. I think you will enjoy them.
Third, please comment on what you read. Comments like yours are much appreciated because they help me see that you like or relate to the things I've written.
Well, that's all for business. Now, on to the book reviews.
Yesterday, I had a bit of time to read because I've recently finished revising a novel that's been in the works since last May, so that is no longer interfering with my reading time. I read two YA novels yesterday, both of which I thought were quite good.
Summary #1: Because of Winn-Dixie: This is a short novel recounting the fictional experiences of a young girl named India Opal Buloni, who goes by her middle name. She begins her story, which is set in a small Florida town where Opal and her father have recently moved, by relating how she met a dog in a grocery store, named him Winn-Dixie (the name of the grocery store), and took him home. Opal's father is a preacher, and her mother ran away when Opal was three. The entire story illustrates how one dog influenced her life, and the lives of the people Opal meets. What the story lacks in tension it makes up for in sweetness and character development and hilarity.
Summary #2: Julie of the Wolves: Julie is an Eskimo girl who runs away from a horrible marital relationship. She desires to go to San Francisco and see a girl with whom she has corresponded for some time. Instead, she becomes lost on the tundra and must use all of her instincts and knowledge to survive. However, she does not remain in solitude as she finds a pack of wolves, learns their mannerisms and methods of communication, and becomes a full-fledged member of their pack. She also tunes into her Eskimo roots and must finally decide if she still wishes to rejoin civilization with all of its conveniences, beauties, and savagery, or if she will hold to the old ways and be a true Eskimo. Though I will not tell you how the story ends, I can say that the tale does do something that other YA novels would not dream of: embrace reality.
Most other novels meant for children between 10-14 will give the story a happy and peaceful conclusion. Julie and the Wolves, on the other hand, presents the girl with a dilemma in which neither alternative is truly what she wants or feels like she needs. But she must make the choice regardless.
I will admit that it was refreshing to see a writer do something so different. However, I think that the story is really better suited for 15- to 18-year-olds. Regardless, I recommend both of them highly.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
"You've Got Mail"
Isn't it nice to get e-mails? I'm talking about the good kind of e-mails, of course. Not the spamming ones. Not the ones from grocery stores offering you $1 off of Lindsay olives when you buys 12 cans of spinach. I'm talking about those warm, loving, and complimentary ones that people sometimes send out of the blue. They do a body good (kind of like milk).
Unfortunately, we can't count on them to come when we need them most. Not generally speaking anyway.
Sometimes, human beings just need to hear that they are loved. They need to be complimented on the things they're doing right, and encouraged on the things they may be doing wrong. The problem is, nobody's around to say these things. We're like those people who get on YouTube and write, "I love this song. Thumbs up if you agree!" Or, "This is my favorite movie. Give this comment a thumbs up if it's yours too." Sometimes, they even write, "I hate people who write 'thumbs up if you agree.' Thumbs up if you agree!" But they continue to go without affirmation because no one will give their comment a thumbs up.
Are you one of these people? Well, I have a solution. Why don't you just "sit right down and write [yourself] a letter"? (from Billy Williams' song "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter")
Yes, I am crazy. I mean, no, I'm certainly not crazy.
Come on. At least give this a try before you give me that look.
In the morning, go to your e-mail account and write a complimentary note of pure flattery and send it to yourself. Say something like this: "You are so sexy when your hair is a mess. I don't think you should ever fix it." Okay, maybe not that. But you can do this effectively if you will simply encourage and compliment yourself. Then, at the end of the day, or in the middle of the day when you need a pick-me-up, you can go to the computer and voila! You've got mail. Not spam. Not a coupon special. A real honest-to-goodness, dripping-with-praise, you're-number-one e-mail that says, "I'm not sure how you keep up with those little ones, but you are doing a superb job"; "have you been working out? Because you are looking great!"; or "Why did the chicken cross the road? To get a hug from you!" (Note: That one actually came from a Hallmark card [Note on the Note: Actually, it didn't]).
Oh and by the way, while you're sending yourself an e-mail, write one to someone else. Who knows? Maybe they haven't read this post yet.
Unfortunately, we can't count on them to come when we need them most. Not generally speaking anyway.
Sometimes, human beings just need to hear that they are loved. They need to be complimented on the things they're doing right, and encouraged on the things they may be doing wrong. The problem is, nobody's around to say these things. We're like those people who get on YouTube and write, "I love this song. Thumbs up if you agree!" Or, "This is my favorite movie. Give this comment a thumbs up if it's yours too." Sometimes, they even write, "I hate people who write 'thumbs up if you agree.' Thumbs up if you agree!" But they continue to go without affirmation because no one will give their comment a thumbs up.
Are you one of these people? Well, I have a solution. Why don't you just "sit right down and write [yourself] a letter"? (from Billy Williams' song "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter")
Yes, I am crazy. I mean, no, I'm certainly not crazy.
Come on. At least give this a try before you give me that look.
In the morning, go to your e-mail account and write a complimentary note of pure flattery and send it to yourself. Say something like this: "You are so sexy when your hair is a mess. I don't think you should ever fix it." Okay, maybe not that. But you can do this effectively if you will simply encourage and compliment yourself. Then, at the end of the day, or in the middle of the day when you need a pick-me-up, you can go to the computer and voila! You've got mail. Not spam. Not a coupon special. A real honest-to-goodness, dripping-with-praise, you're-number-one e-mail that says, "I'm not sure how you keep up with those little ones, but you are doing a superb job"; "have you been working out? Because you are looking great!"; or "Why did the chicken cross the road? To get a hug from you!" (Note: That one actually came from a Hallmark card [Note on the Note: Actually, it didn't]).
Oh and by the way, while you're sending yourself an e-mail, write one to someone else. Who knows? Maybe they haven't read this post yet.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
"And It Makes Me Wonder"
Just about everyone, I imagine, who actively watches TV has a favorite actor on a favorite show. Mine happens to be Simon Baker on The Mentalist. I like his character, Patrick Jane, because he has all the wit (and more) of Dr. Gregory House, M.D. without all of the pent-up rage (Also, Patrick Jane doesn't solicit hookers in his spare time, so he's also much classier). However, in a very close second place would probably be the entire cast of The Big Bang Theory because of their constant hilarity. If I get about 50%-70% of their nerdy jokes, then I start to feel pretty good about my IQ. Plus, it's educational (in moreways than one). I now know the names of the six noble gases (helium, argon, xenon, radon, neon, and krypton), who the best Star Trek captain was, and the difference between a sweater and a dickie (and that was only one episode). Oh, and did I mention they're hilarious?
Raj: "I'm telling you, dude, the only way to feel better about Penny going out with other guys is for you to get back on the whores."
Howard: "Horse."
Raj: "What?"
Howard: "That phrase is 'get back on the horse,' not 'whores'."
Raj: "That's disgusting, dude!"
Unfortunately, this TV show coin does have another side. An ugly side. We might call it the other side, the far side, or even...the dark side (Dun dun dun).
Or perhaps it isn't a coin at all. Perhaps it's what Darin Hammond would call a "locked box, where all bad thoughts go" (from SNL skit "Bush-Gore Debate"). Accompanying these bad thoughts will be the annoying performances and actors who cause them.
Rosanne used to be in the locked box, but she's been away from TV for so long (except in syndication) that she doesn't even matter anymore. Besides, even she can't beat out that red-haired man from CSI: Miami (I've never bothered to find out his real name) and William Shatner at the same time.
I have wondered how the network keeps allowing these people to remain on television. Horatio Cane's every line is a soliloquy meant to pull us into his unspoken emotional turmoil despite the ridiculousness of the lines themselves ("I am the fiber king, David; I am the fiber king. So what are you going to do?"). William Shatner's portrayal as an uncaring father makes us wish Spock had started a mutiny on the U.S.S. Enterprise back in the 60s, beamed Kirk into an abandoned subterranean mining colony, and left him at the mercy of the Horta. Unfortunately, Spock never saw the logic in that.
However, I can also see why they remain on TV. The networks must realize, as I have recently, that despite these actors' inability to deliver a good performance, they probably could not do anything else besides try to act. They couldn't be normal people with normal jobs. Think about it. Do you want Horatio Cane and William Shatner as your garbage men, showing up every Friday morning and going through your trash?
"Hey, honey, the fiber king's digging through the barrels again."
"Get him out of the recycling bags!"
Suddenly, through an open window, you see Horatio Cane holding a piece of broken glass up to the light. William Shatner says, "So. How long. Do you. Think. That's. Been there?"
Horatio puts on his dark glasses, presses "play" on his truck stereo, and suddenly the entire neighborhood can hear the screaming strains of "Won't Get Fooled Again" by The Who. He casually responds, looking directly toward your window with one eyebrow raised: "The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind."
That. Doesn't. Even make. Sense. Oh. Well.
Raj: "I'm telling you, dude, the only way to feel better about Penny going out with other guys is for you to get back on the whores."
Howard: "Horse."
Raj: "What?"
Howard: "That phrase is 'get back on the horse,' not 'whores'."
Raj: "That's disgusting, dude!"
Unfortunately, this TV show coin does have another side. An ugly side. We might call it the other side, the far side, or even...the dark side (Dun dun dun).
Or perhaps it isn't a coin at all. Perhaps it's what Darin Hammond would call a "locked box, where all bad thoughts go" (from SNL skit "Bush-Gore Debate"). Accompanying these bad thoughts will be the annoying performances and actors who cause them.
Rosanne used to be in the locked box, but she's been away from TV for so long (except in syndication) that she doesn't even matter anymore. Besides, even she can't beat out that red-haired man from CSI: Miami (I've never bothered to find out his real name) and William Shatner at the same time.
I have wondered how the network keeps allowing these people to remain on television. Horatio Cane's every line is a soliloquy meant to pull us into his unspoken emotional turmoil despite the ridiculousness of the lines themselves ("I am the fiber king, David; I am the fiber king. So what are you going to do?"). William Shatner's portrayal as an uncaring father makes us wish Spock had started a mutiny on the U.S.S. Enterprise back in the 60s, beamed Kirk into an abandoned subterranean mining colony, and left him at the mercy of the Horta. Unfortunately, Spock never saw the logic in that.
However, I can also see why they remain on TV. The networks must realize, as I have recently, that despite these actors' inability to deliver a good performance, they probably could not do anything else besides try to act. They couldn't be normal people with normal jobs. Think about it. Do you want Horatio Cane and William Shatner as your garbage men, showing up every Friday morning and going through your trash?
"Hey, honey, the fiber king's digging through the barrels again."
"Get him out of the recycling bags!"
Suddenly, through an open window, you see Horatio Cane holding a piece of broken glass up to the light. William Shatner says, "So. How long. Do you. Think. That's. Been there?"
Horatio puts on his dark glasses, presses "play" on his truck stereo, and suddenly the entire neighborhood can hear the screaming strains of "Won't Get Fooled Again" by The Who. He casually responds, looking directly toward your window with one eyebrow raised: "The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind."
That. Doesn't. Even make. Sense. Oh. Well.
Monday, January 24, 2011
"What Dreams May Come"
Ah, yes. The standard fairy-tale line: Dreams do come true. It sorta makes the soul feel all soft an' gushy inside, don't it? Sorta like sitting next to "a pot-bellied stove on a frosty morning" (from 1959 Rock Hudson film Pillow Talk). Because of this line, Disney has lived as long as it has. If people did not believe in their own dreams coming true or feed off of the hope supplied by such insipid, naive characters as Cinderella and Snow White, Disney pictures would probably have done about as well as "It's a Wondeful Life" did during the Depression. But here we are, and the belief that dreams come true continues to be fostered in surround sound and often in 3-D.
Well, if dreams do come true, I certainly hope they are the daydreams. Those are the ones you can control, you know, the ones that are deliberately infused with aspirations and objectives and female movie stars with long black hair and English accents (hey, she's not in all of them). Night dreams are too odd, too fluid, too uncontrollable, too Lewis Carroll-esque. Most of the time, I can't even remember what I dream about at night, and I think it's because my mind doesn't want to.
But what about the nightmares? Eek. If those come true. Not only will I at some point in my life lose all of my money to an embezzler, wake up and find I haven't actually graduated from college because I slept in and missed an important day of class (dreaming about waking up is an interesting and somewhat different sort of experience), and unwillingly jump off of a waterfall without a parachute (like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive; "He did a Peter Pan off of this dam, right here!") but my teeth are eventually going fall out. Not even in the natural way. Old people lose their teeth because they're, well, to put it nicely, old, but as far back as I can remember with any degree of lucidness (which is basically a memory of my teenage years and maybe a little before) I have been having dreams that my teeth are falling out in unexpected and spooky ways.
Once I dreamed that I bit something and my teeth were already gone; another time I bit something and my teeth all bent forward and broke off. Sometimes they're simply dangling from my gums like enamel wind chimes, sort of tapping against each other and jangling (as much as teeth can, I guess).
Last night however ("a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams" [Shakespeare's Richard III]) , I had my--how can I say this--most horrific tooth dream ever. My teeth had not fallen out this time (though it might have been better if they had, since that is the usual course of action and I am getting used to it by now anyway); no, in this dream, my teeth were all different sizes and colors and were twisted in different ways. My gums were bloodied and part of my mouth was permanently uncloseable (like Harvey Two-Face in The Dark Knight), so my Quasimodo bicuspids were forever before me in the dirty mirror.
I am still cringing even now simply thinking of it. I wish I could not think of it. I even tried to make the residual impression of the dream go away this morning by brushing, flossing, and rinsing vigorously with my trusty alcohol-free Crest Pro-Health CPC (what ever that means) Antigingivitis/Antiplaque Oral Rinse, but it didn't do any good at all. The teeth still haunt me. Oh, the teeth, the teeth! "I see thee still" (from Shakespeare's Macbeth).Oh, dear, how "wicked dreams abuse the curtain'd sleep" (Ibid.); "O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have had bad dreams" (Shakespeare's Hamlet). All I can say is this: if a dream really is a "wish your heart makes" (from Disney film Cinderella), then I need to see a cardiologist about a bypass.
Dreams come true, eh? I sincerely hope not.
Well, if dreams do come true, I certainly hope they are the daydreams. Those are the ones you can control, you know, the ones that are deliberately infused with aspirations and objectives and female movie stars with long black hair and English accents (hey, she's not in all of them). Night dreams are too odd, too fluid, too uncontrollable, too Lewis Carroll-esque. Most of the time, I can't even remember what I dream about at night, and I think it's because my mind doesn't want to.
But what about the nightmares? Eek. If those come true. Not only will I at some point in my life lose all of my money to an embezzler, wake up and find I haven't actually graduated from college because I slept in and missed an important day of class (dreaming about waking up is an interesting and somewhat different sort of experience), and unwillingly jump off of a waterfall without a parachute (like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive; "He did a Peter Pan off of this dam, right here!") but my teeth are eventually going fall out. Not even in the natural way. Old people lose their teeth because they're, well, to put it nicely, old, but as far back as I can remember with any degree of lucidness (which is basically a memory of my teenage years and maybe a little before) I have been having dreams that my teeth are falling out in unexpected and spooky ways.
Once I dreamed that I bit something and my teeth were already gone; another time I bit something and my teeth all bent forward and broke off. Sometimes they're simply dangling from my gums like enamel wind chimes, sort of tapping against each other and jangling (as much as teeth can, I guess).
Last night however ("a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams" [Shakespeare's Richard III]) , I had my--how can I say this--most horrific tooth dream ever. My teeth had not fallen out this time (though it might have been better if they had, since that is the usual course of action and I am getting used to it by now anyway); no, in this dream, my teeth were all different sizes and colors and were twisted in different ways. My gums were bloodied and part of my mouth was permanently uncloseable (like Harvey Two-Face in The Dark Knight), so my Quasimodo bicuspids were forever before me in the dirty mirror.
I am still cringing even now simply thinking of it. I wish I could not think of it. I even tried to make the residual impression of the dream go away this morning by brushing, flossing, and rinsing vigorously with my trusty alcohol-free Crest Pro-Health CPC (what ever that means) Antigingivitis/Antiplaque Oral Rinse, but it didn't do any good at all. The teeth still haunt me. Oh, the teeth, the teeth! "I see thee still" (from Shakespeare's Macbeth).Oh, dear, how "wicked dreams abuse the curtain'd sleep" (Ibid.); "O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have had bad dreams" (Shakespeare's Hamlet). All I can say is this: if a dream really is a "wish your heart makes" (from Disney film Cinderella), then I need to see a cardiologist about a bypass.
Dreams come true, eh? I sincerely hope not.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Goodbye Countdown: T Minus Olbermann? Houston, We Don't Have a Problem with That
KO has been KO'd. Keith Olbermann, the outspoken journalist from MSNBC's "Countdown with Keith Olbermann", mostly famous for his "The Worst Person in the World" segment, has been let go. Let us all observe a voluntary moment of silence in honor of Keith's involuntary silence. Aaaah. Sweet luxury.
Unfortunately for Bill O' Reilly, he'll have to find some other liberal with whom to start a feud (that should not be too hard; after all, I think Joy Behar and Whoopi Goldberg from ABC's The View have already been lined up for that privilege).
You know, I admire Keith. Sort of. Okay, I don't really. But suppose I did? He deserves admiration, I think; perhaps not from me or you or anyone you know, but he probably deserves some admiration for his contribution to journalism over the past years at MSNBC and at ESPN. After all, I don't know of another person in the business of journalism who can call another person "The Worst Person in the World" and get away with it, but he could do it three times in a segment: worse, worser, and worst. How do you remain in the business saying things like that? Well, Keith Olbermann has the secret. Well, I guess he had the secret (If only he had consulted Charles Bukowski, he might still have a job [see Bukowski's "The Secret of My Endurance"]). Acknowledging that people do make poor decisions in their words and behavior is one thing; resorting to ad hominem name-calling is a whole other realm into which journalists should never venture. Yet venture he did, and often, and now he's just ventured off.
Perhaps he'll go back to ESPN now. Ooh, I can already see Brent Musberger's name showing up in a "Worst Sports Analyst in the World" segment. Or, maybe Keith will be on SportsNation with Michelle Beadle (Not that it would matter; when Michelle's on the screen, the guys who watch the show don't look at anything else. "Sports? What sports? Dude, this is waaay better than 'Around the Horn'!").
On the other hand, maybe Jim Rome will give him a permanent spot as a co-host. Of course, they'll have to change the name of the show to "Jim Rome Is Burning, and Keith Olbermann Is...Well, He's Just Sort of There; Don't Mind Him Show". I think it could work. (Note: If he takes Erin Andrews's place on the sidelines of the NFL games, I will write ESPN a scathing letter of rebuke)
But getting back to "The Worst Person in the World" thing, how do you suppose that all started? Did he just make it up one day? Did he just look at a poster of Sean Hannity one day and decide, "That person has got to be the worst person in the world." Or, is it left over from childhood, do you think?
"Mom, you gave me Corn Flakes instead of Frosted Flakes; you're the worst person in the world!"
"Dad, why did you vote for Reagan? You're the worst person in the world?"
"Ugh, Grandma, these cookies taste like dirt; you're the worst person in the world!"
Then perhaps the day came when he wasn't picked for kickball at recess.
"You're all tied for being the worst person in the world! Jimmy, you're worse; Sally, you're worser; and Mo, you're worst. Now, gimme my ball; I'm going home!"
Well, KO, you are now joining an elite list of things we never want to see again (It's hardly the A-list; more like the K-list): K-Pax, K-Fed, K-Mart, KKK, and Kanye West. So, good luck, and know that wherever you go, Rush Limbaugh will miss you.
Unfortunately for Bill O' Reilly, he'll have to find some other liberal with whom to start a feud (that should not be too hard; after all, I think Joy Behar and Whoopi Goldberg from ABC's The View have already been lined up for that privilege).
You know, I admire Keith. Sort of. Okay, I don't really. But suppose I did? He deserves admiration, I think; perhaps not from me or you or anyone you know, but he probably deserves some admiration for his contribution to journalism over the past years at MSNBC and at ESPN. After all, I don't know of another person in the business of journalism who can call another person "The Worst Person in the World" and get away with it, but he could do it three times in a segment: worse, worser, and worst. How do you remain in the business saying things like that? Well, Keith Olbermann has the secret. Well, I guess he had the secret (If only he had consulted Charles Bukowski, he might still have a job [see Bukowski's "The Secret of My Endurance"]). Acknowledging that people do make poor decisions in their words and behavior is one thing; resorting to ad hominem name-calling is a whole other realm into which journalists should never venture. Yet venture he did, and often, and now he's just ventured off.
Perhaps he'll go back to ESPN now. Ooh, I can already see Brent Musberger's name showing up in a "Worst Sports Analyst in the World" segment. Or, maybe Keith will be on SportsNation with Michelle Beadle (Not that it would matter; when Michelle's on the screen, the guys who watch the show don't look at anything else. "Sports? What sports? Dude, this is waaay better than 'Around the Horn'!").
On the other hand, maybe Jim Rome will give him a permanent spot as a co-host. Of course, they'll have to change the name of the show to "Jim Rome Is Burning, and Keith Olbermann Is...Well, He's Just Sort of There; Don't Mind Him Show". I think it could work. (Note: If he takes Erin Andrews's place on the sidelines of the NFL games, I will write ESPN a scathing letter of rebuke)
But getting back to "The Worst Person in the World" thing, how do you suppose that all started? Did he just make it up one day? Did he just look at a poster of Sean Hannity one day and decide, "That person has got to be the worst person in the world." Or, is it left over from childhood, do you think?
"Mom, you gave me Corn Flakes instead of Frosted Flakes; you're the worst person in the world!"
"Dad, why did you vote for Reagan? You're the worst person in the world?"
"Ugh, Grandma, these cookies taste like dirt; you're the worst person in the world!"
Then perhaps the day came when he wasn't picked for kickball at recess.
"You're all tied for being the worst person in the world! Jimmy, you're worse; Sally, you're worser; and Mo, you're worst. Now, gimme my ball; I'm going home!"
Well, KO, you are now joining an elite list of things we never want to see again (It's hardly the A-list; more like the K-list): K-Pax, K-Fed, K-Mart, KKK, and Kanye West. So, good luck, and know that wherever you go, Rush Limbaugh will miss you.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
A Man, a Can, No Plan
This afternoon, my dad went to the store to buy some medicine. He came home with a box of Thera-flu, but also had managed to purchase a few things that he had not intended to buy when he left home (Note: He always feels the need to justify the extra purchases to me, though I could care less if he uses his own money to buy things that he wants. That's his prerogative, and I say, God bless him for it). In his entire life, I'm not sure he has ever been able to successfully visit the store without buying a few superfluous things in addition to the necessary ones; in that, he and my mother are completely alike (Likenesses with them are sort of a novelty, so there is need to emphasize their common traits). She at times will also buy things which are of no utility; oh yes, it's true. But who doesn't? (Note: If you ask her, she doesn't. Denial is as hereditary in the human race, I believe, as rationalization). So, my mom buys things which are about as superfluous as the things my dad buys; the difference lies in the fact that my mom will use coupons to buy her stuff, and my dad does not worry about trivial things like glossy pieces of paper that say "A $1.00 off two."
Today, though he had less useless things in tow than he usually does on foraging trips. One of the things he brought was 4.89 lb. premium pork roast that the meat man at the store had recommended. He came up to my room, I was working at the time, and the very first thing he said to me was:
"I need your help. I bought a pork roast for dinner. Do you know what to do with it?"
He had bought a pork roast so Mom would be surprised when she came home tonight. The problem: he did not know what to do with it after bringing it home. Yes, that is characteristic of my shoot-from-hip, non-domesticized father: buying something to be nice, but having no clue about what do with his purchase. Oh, well. I was able to help him anyway, and the roast is now in crock pot, smelling wonderfully. Just call me Iron Chef. Hai!
But I wonder, what would he have done if I had been unable to do something with his pork roast? The point: life needs spontaneity. It thrive on the adventure which spontaneity provides, but life also requires a certain amount of premeditation and foresight. Otherwise, the pantry will be forever full, and the children will starve regardless.
Today, though he had less useless things in tow than he usually does on foraging trips. One of the things he brought was 4.89 lb. premium pork roast that the meat man at the store had recommended. He came up to my room, I was working at the time, and the very first thing he said to me was:
"I need your help. I bought a pork roast for dinner. Do you know what to do with it?"
He had bought a pork roast so Mom would be surprised when she came home tonight. The problem: he did not know what to do with it after bringing it home. Yes, that is characteristic of my shoot-from-hip, non-domesticized father: buying something to be nice, but having no clue about what do with his purchase. Oh, well. I was able to help him anyway, and the roast is now in crock pot, smelling wonderfully. Just call me Iron Chef. Hai!
But I wonder, what would he have done if I had been unable to do something with his pork roast? The point: life needs spontaneity. It thrive on the adventure which spontaneity provides, but life also requires a certain amount of premeditation and foresight. Otherwise, the pantry will be forever full, and the children will starve regardless.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Asleep at the Wheel? Wake Up!
Do you ever hear yourself saying trite phrases like "Look on the bright side," "If the shoe fits," or "The glass is half-empty"? Do you ever shoot yourself in the foot or show some backbone? Do you have a friend who fell out of the ugly tree and no matter how much he spruced himself up, he was still so ugly he'd have to sneak up on a glass of water to get a drink and wear a porkchop around his neck to play with the dog? (Thank you, Rodney Dangerfield). If so, you could be a chronic cliché-user.
Now, don't get me wrong; I use clichés. I know lots of people who use them, and I understand why they do. Cliches are convenient. If a man offers a girl a drink, she doesn't have to be content with saying something as simple as "No, thank you." After all, popular belief dictates that the word no sometimes means yes, and the words thank you are generally a positive response; consequently, the man might not get the message with a mere "No, thank you." So what does the girl do in that case? Pull out a good cliché like "Get lost!" "Jump in the lake!" or, here's an oldie but a goodie (hey that's a cliché too), "Go to h---, loser!" The message is clear, although neither creative nor original.
The problem is that such overused phrases, though at times effective, begin to denigrate the language in which they are used; instead of thinking up new ways to say things, we revert to saying the same things over and over until they are practically worthless. For example, the word good-bye has become cliché. The Oxford English Dictionary says that the word good-bye is a contraction for the phrase "God be with you," which Shakespeare used in 1598 in the play Love's Labours Lost in the contracted form "God b'wy you", and which was further shortened in the eighteenth century to "Good b'w'y" by Thomas D'Urfey. Finally, in 1819 the scandalous and often vapid Lord Byron used the words "good bye" in his epic poem Don Juan (aee "good-bye", OED Online). In all this time, the word has gone from wishing someone to have divine assistance in his or her travels to merely being something we say when someone leaves the house. Because of overuse and lack of thought regarding our speech, the term now lacks the power and substance that it once possessed.
I said before that such overused phrases (clichés) begin to denigrate the language in which they are used, but I want to rephrase that now: people who give little thought to the words they employ and how they employ them are responsible for the denigration of their particular language. We cannot simply keep wringing the sponge and expect water to drip perpetually into our empty buckets. We have to keep dipping it in the pail in order to replenish its moisture.
So, here's an experiment: What do you say to your children when they leave the house? Do you find yourself saying the same things every time they go? Maybe you say good-bye, see you later, have fun, be careful, or remember who you are? These are things my parents always said, and that in itself, namely the repetition of clichéd phrases and words, may be the reason why I had such a difficult time remembering to be careful or who I was (I always tried to have fun, but not because I remembered my dad telling me to). Their words did not stick in my head because they weren't meaningful or memorable; they were just things that parents say to their kids. Now, I am sure my parents did want me to be careful, and have fun, and remember who I was. However, the words they used to convey their sentiments unfortunately fell somewhat flat because of the nature and frequent use.
So what are you suggesting? you ask. We can't just suddenly change the way we talk.
I don't pretend to have the answer to this quandary, but I do have a suggestion. Perhaps if we try to think more about what we say before we say it, our cut-and-paste conversations may eventually develop into designer dialogues and customized communication.
Now, don't get me wrong; I use clichés. I know lots of people who use them, and I understand why they do. Cliches are convenient. If a man offers a girl a drink, she doesn't have to be content with saying something as simple as "No, thank you." After all, popular belief dictates that the word no sometimes means yes, and the words thank you are generally a positive response; consequently, the man might not get the message with a mere "No, thank you." So what does the girl do in that case? Pull out a good cliché like "Get lost!" "Jump in the lake!" or, here's an oldie but a goodie (hey that's a cliché too), "Go to h---, loser!" The message is clear, although neither creative nor original.
The problem is that such overused phrases, though at times effective, begin to denigrate the language in which they are used; instead of thinking up new ways to say things, we revert to saying the same things over and over until they are practically worthless. For example, the word good-bye has become cliché. The Oxford English Dictionary says that the word good-bye is a contraction for the phrase "God be with you," which Shakespeare used in 1598 in the play Love's Labours Lost in the contracted form "God b'wy you", and which was further shortened in the eighteenth century to "Good b'w'y" by Thomas D'Urfey. Finally, in 1819 the scandalous and often vapid Lord Byron used the words "good bye" in his epic poem Don Juan (aee "good-bye", OED Online). In all this time, the word has gone from wishing someone to have divine assistance in his or her travels to merely being something we say when someone leaves the house. Because of overuse and lack of thought regarding our speech, the term now lacks the power and substance that it once possessed.
I said before that such overused phrases (clichés) begin to denigrate the language in which they are used, but I want to rephrase that now: people who give little thought to the words they employ and how they employ them are responsible for the denigration of their particular language. We cannot simply keep wringing the sponge and expect water to drip perpetually into our empty buckets. We have to keep dipping it in the pail in order to replenish its moisture.
So, here's an experiment: What do you say to your children when they leave the house? Do you find yourself saying the same things every time they go? Maybe you say good-bye, see you later, have fun, be careful, or remember who you are? These are things my parents always said, and that in itself, namely the repetition of clichéd phrases and words, may be the reason why I had such a difficult time remembering to be careful or who I was (I always tried to have fun, but not because I remembered my dad telling me to). Their words did not stick in my head because they weren't meaningful or memorable; they were just things that parents say to their kids. Now, I am sure my parents did want me to be careful, and have fun, and remember who I was. However, the words they used to convey their sentiments unfortunately fell somewhat flat because of the nature and frequent use.
So what are you suggesting? you ask. We can't just suddenly change the way we talk.
I don't pretend to have the answer to this quandary, but I do have a suggestion. Perhaps if we try to think more about what we say before we say it, our cut-and-paste conversations may eventually develop into designer dialogues and customized communication.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Book Review: A Farewell to Arms
Having just finished my first ever 20-minute Pilates workout, I am now sweating like a racehorse and smelling, ooh, so sweet. I am now leaner, longer, and firmer than ever, and quite irritable to boot. However, my Pilates-workout triumph is nothing compared to the fact that I finally summoned up enough gumption to pick up A Farewell to Arms and read it, it being the second of two books I have read this week which I have been intending to read for some time (The other was The Kite Runner; I'll write a review on that tomorrow).
Speaking of triumphs, a very clever bumper sticker designer said once, triumph is simply try with a little umph on it.
I know. Fantastic sentiment. In the words of Orson Welles (though this remark was made in reference to the lyrical beauty of Dean Martin's immortal song "That's Amore", it is still applicable), "It has all the romanticism of a Tidy Bowl commercial." The interesting thing though is that it took more umph to push the scowl off of my face as I picked it up and thumbed past the title page than to actually read the entire 314-page Hemingway novel (I'm still trying to push the scowl away, and I started the book four days ago; I think it's stuck that way).
Plot: The story takes place during the first World War. The narrator/protagonist/anti-hero is a lieutenant and field medic named Fred in the Italian army during the invasion of the Austrian German army. Why he is there, no one, not even he, knows. He meets a Scottish nurse named Catherine, and they fall in love. Fred ends up wounded and the relationship between him and Catherine escalates. When he is sent back to the front after his recovery, he soon meet with disaster when the Italian army begins to retreat. He deserts, finds Catherine, and they intend to escape to Switzerland.
If you are familiar at all with Hemingway, or at least have read my review on The Old Man and the Sea, the ending of A Farewell to Arms will not surprise you, though you may have wished for it to end differently. If you read the story and are disappointed by the ending, you must realize that it had to be that way. It really did. You can't wear a pretty or warm glove if it doesn't fit; you have to deal with ugly and cold ones if they are the only gloves in your size. It's the same with stories. The story dictates to the writer, not the other way around.
Besides, such self-serving individuals as Fred and Catherine would have been horrible par....Never mind. I refuse to give anymore away. Read it and weep. A great story told in typical Hemingway fashion.
Speaking of triumphs, a very clever bumper sticker designer said once, triumph is simply try with a little umph on it.
I know. Fantastic sentiment. In the words of Orson Welles (though this remark was made in reference to the lyrical beauty of Dean Martin's immortal song "That's Amore", it is still applicable), "It has all the romanticism of a Tidy Bowl commercial." The interesting thing though is that it took more umph to push the scowl off of my face as I picked it up and thumbed past the title page than to actually read the entire 314-page Hemingway novel (I'm still trying to push the scowl away, and I started the book four days ago; I think it's stuck that way).
Plot: The story takes place during the first World War. The narrator/protagonist/anti-hero is a lieutenant and field medic named Fred in the Italian army during the invasion of the Austrian German army. Why he is there, no one, not even he, knows. He meets a Scottish nurse named Catherine, and they fall in love. Fred ends up wounded and the relationship between him and Catherine escalates. When he is sent back to the front after his recovery, he soon meet with disaster when the Italian army begins to retreat. He deserts, finds Catherine, and they intend to escape to Switzerland.
If you are familiar at all with Hemingway, or at least have read my review on The Old Man and the Sea, the ending of A Farewell to Arms will not surprise you, though you may have wished for it to end differently. If you read the story and are disappointed by the ending, you must realize that it had to be that way. It really did. You can't wear a pretty or warm glove if it doesn't fit; you have to deal with ugly and cold ones if they are the only gloves in your size. It's the same with stories. The story dictates to the writer, not the other way around.
Besides, such self-serving individuals as Fred and Catherine would have been horrible par....Never mind. I refuse to give anymore away. Read it and weep. A great story told in typical Hemingway fashion.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
"You Do Not Do, You Do Not Do"
Do you have days in which you feel like you've accomplished a lot, yet you also feel like you've accomplished just about nothing? Such an occurrence, at least in verbal reference, sounds impossible, yet we know from sad experience that it happens. Often. In fact, just yesterday I had a day like that. Many of us do. I couldn't even find time to shower until 3:08 p.m because of the meatloaf and the rolls and the creamed beef on toast I was making. So why do you suppose that is? How could such a paradox exist? Well, I have an idea.
We all start out the day with a sometimes mental, though frequently written, list of things we want to do. Unfortunately, our to-do lists are not all-inclusive because they cannot factor in the unexpected nor calculate how long it will take to accomplish it. Consequently, the things which we cannot predict take up all of the time in the day and prevent us from completing the tasks we had in mind to finish. Children become ill, the baby has twenty diaper blowouts, the car breaks down, and "the monkeys have no tails in Zamboanga" (from a song by the same name); these are just a few of the things we cannot foresee. Thus, our lists lie incomplete, victims of the ravaging effects of the unpredicted and unpredictable. What can you do about this phenomenon? Absolutely nothing. "There [is] clearly nothing left to do but flop down on [your] shabby little couch and howl....Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating" (from O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi").
Okay, I admit, I was kidding just then. If I didn't have an idea about what to do, I would have written about something else. Something more useful. Feel free to flop is you must, but there is a way to circumvent frustration regarding our perpetual inability to complete a simple list of intended daily tasks.
Really? (sniff) What is it?
You need a to-did list.
A what?
You heard me. A to-did list. Unlike to-do lists, those nefarious lists of chores that you compile on torn pieces of Precious Moments stationery in the wee morning hours and stick to the door of your fridge with a homemade magnet ostentatiously flaunting the riveting words "If it is to be, it is up to me," a to-did list is compiled in the evening and shows you everything you have accomplished during the day. Sort of like a journal on a bit of a crumpled Post-it note.
Much of the frustration we feel about our to-do lists comes when we compare the 3 checked items we managed to accomplish--by miraculous means--to the 1500 unchecked items we could not get to. Luckily, a to-did list has no unchecked items because no sooner do you write down those 3 accomplished items from your to-do list--plus the 3278 items that you accomplished which were not written down--than you can go ahead and check them all off. You can go to bed think about the things you did do, instead of the things you did not.
Frustration, frustration, "you b------, I'm through" (from Sylvia Plath's "Daddy").
We all start out the day with a sometimes mental, though frequently written, list of things we want to do. Unfortunately, our to-do lists are not all-inclusive because they cannot factor in the unexpected nor calculate how long it will take to accomplish it. Consequently, the things which we cannot predict take up all of the time in the day and prevent us from completing the tasks we had in mind to finish. Children become ill, the baby has twenty diaper blowouts, the car breaks down, and "the monkeys have no tails in Zamboanga" (from a song by the same name); these are just a few of the things we cannot foresee. Thus, our lists lie incomplete, victims of the ravaging effects of the unpredicted and unpredictable. What can you do about this phenomenon? Absolutely nothing. "There [is] clearly nothing left to do but flop down on [your] shabby little couch and howl....Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating" (from O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi").
Okay, I admit, I was kidding just then. If I didn't have an idea about what to do, I would have written about something else. Something more useful. Feel free to flop is you must, but there is a way to circumvent frustration regarding our perpetual inability to complete a simple list of intended daily tasks.
Really? (sniff) What is it?
You need a to-did list.
A what?
You heard me. A to-did list. Unlike to-do lists, those nefarious lists of chores that you compile on torn pieces of Precious Moments stationery in the wee morning hours and stick to the door of your fridge with a homemade magnet ostentatiously flaunting the riveting words "If it is to be, it is up to me," a to-did list is compiled in the evening and shows you everything you have accomplished during the day. Sort of like a journal on a bit of a crumpled Post-it note.
Much of the frustration we feel about our to-do lists comes when we compare the 3 checked items we managed to accomplish--by miraculous means--to the 1500 unchecked items we could not get to. Luckily, a to-did list has no unchecked items because no sooner do you write down those 3 accomplished items from your to-do list--plus the 3278 items that you accomplished which were not written down--than you can go ahead and check them all off. You can go to bed think about the things you did do, instead of the things you did not.
Frustration, frustration, "you b------, I'm through" (from Sylvia Plath's "Daddy").
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Pesto, Pesto, Do Your Very Best-o
[Note: The title is not corny. In fact, it's incredibly witty, but for those of you who haven't seen the movie Houseboat with Cary Grant and Sophia Loren or heard the song "Bing-Bang-Bong", the cleverness of the pun probably escapes you.]
Last night, my mom made soup. That's all. She left on some errands and told me to turn the crock pot on to warm the soup at around 5:15. After she left, I could not help myself. The thought of having soup by itself gave me the same sensation as reading one of Edwin Arlington Robinson's poems. Yes, indeed, the thought of soup with nothing to accompany it seemed to me like "a drear and lonely tract of hell / from all the common gloom removed afar:" (from Robinson's "Supremacy"). So I rolled up the sleeves of my Old Navy T-shirt and went to work making a side dish. At least, I would have if I had known what to begin making.
I sat a while and pondered (and by "a while," I mean a total of about twenty seconds) on what I could make. For Christmas, one of my sisters gave me a cookbook in which there was a recipe called Prosciutto Mozzarella Pinwheels. Although it sounded quite good, I had neither prosciutto nor wilted baby spinach; therefore, I had no way to make it exactly as the book said. However, I am and have been for a long time quite adept at "[learning] by going where I have to go" (from Theodore Roetke's "The Waking"), at least as far as cooking is concerned. So, as usual, I began to scrounge through the fridges and the freezers looking for inspiration, which I subsequently found in a bottle of basil pesto, a package of frozen ham, a can of black olives, and a bag of shredded Italian cheese.
Many people are afraid to venture out on their own in the kitchen, and when they find that they haven't the necessary ingredients for one recipe, they will simply find another. Listen; the savage world beyond the fixed ingredients on the 3 x 5 card in your trembling fingers calls to you, and yet you shy away from its magnetic tones and yearning cry. Will you plug your ears and go back to the recipe box for something different? Or will you find enough inner strength to will yourself to believe that you can, in fact, think outside the card. Whatever you decide to do, you will not regret it. Just remember: chemists follow recipes; chefs follow no one and nothing but the cooing sound of their culinary genius.
So, getting back to my inspiration (I wish truth would stop breaking in), I combined the ingredients to make Pesto Pinwheels. I liked them so much that I decided to make another go-around to accompany the meatloaf I made for dinner.
Pesto Pinwheels
Bread dough:
I like to make my own bread dough, but if you want to, feel free to use 1 pound of store-bought pizza dough for this recipe.
Or you can follow my pizza dough recipe (found on my November 30th post called "Pizza Night")
Filling ingredients:
1 small bottle of basil pesto
8 oz bag of Kraft Italian cheese
1/2 can of black olives, minced finely
1/2 lb. chopped ham, cut into small pieces
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spread the dough out on the oiled counter. Make a square. Cover the surface area with pesto. Then spread the olives, the cheese, and the pieces of ham in layers on the dough square. Gently roll the dough into a tight cylinder shape. Pinch the edges closed. Use water or egg yolks to make it seal. Pinch the ends closed. Then use dental floss to cut off 1-inch pieces of the roll and place them attractive side up on greased a 9 x 9 pan. Put pan in the oven for 23 minutes. When the times rings, sprinkle more cheese on top and put them back in for 4-5 more minutes. Pull them out and put them on a cooling rack until they cool. If you want to, you sample them before they cool, but you might get hiccups.
Last night, my mom made soup. That's all. She left on some errands and told me to turn the crock pot on to warm the soup at around 5:15. After she left, I could not help myself. The thought of having soup by itself gave me the same sensation as reading one of Edwin Arlington Robinson's poems. Yes, indeed, the thought of soup with nothing to accompany it seemed to me like "a drear and lonely tract of hell / from all the common gloom removed afar:" (from Robinson's "Supremacy"). So I rolled up the sleeves of my Old Navy T-shirt and went to work making a side dish. At least, I would have if I had known what to begin making.
I sat a while and pondered (and by "a while," I mean a total of about twenty seconds) on what I could make. For Christmas, one of my sisters gave me a cookbook in which there was a recipe called Prosciutto Mozzarella Pinwheels. Although it sounded quite good, I had neither prosciutto nor wilted baby spinach; therefore, I had no way to make it exactly as the book said. However, I am and have been for a long time quite adept at "[learning] by going where I have to go" (from Theodore Roetke's "The Waking"), at least as far as cooking is concerned. So, as usual, I began to scrounge through the fridges and the freezers looking for inspiration, which I subsequently found in a bottle of basil pesto, a package of frozen ham, a can of black olives, and a bag of shredded Italian cheese.
Many people are afraid to venture out on their own in the kitchen, and when they find that they haven't the necessary ingredients for one recipe, they will simply find another. Listen; the savage world beyond the fixed ingredients on the 3 x 5 card in your trembling fingers calls to you, and yet you shy away from its magnetic tones and yearning cry. Will you plug your ears and go back to the recipe box for something different? Or will you find enough inner strength to will yourself to believe that you can, in fact, think outside the card. Whatever you decide to do, you will not regret it. Just remember: chemists follow recipes; chefs follow no one and nothing but the cooing sound of their culinary genius.
So, getting back to my inspiration (I wish truth would stop breaking in), I combined the ingredients to make Pesto Pinwheels. I liked them so much that I decided to make another go-around to accompany the meatloaf I made for dinner.
Pesto Pinwheels
Bread dough:
I like to make my own bread dough, but if you want to, feel free to use 1 pound of store-bought pizza dough for this recipe.
Or you can follow my pizza dough recipe (found on my November 30th post called "Pizza Night")
Filling ingredients:
1 small bottle of basil pesto
8 oz bag of Kraft Italian cheese
1/2 can of black olives, minced finely
1/2 lb. chopped ham, cut into small pieces
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spread the dough out on the oiled counter. Make a square. Cover the surface area with pesto. Then spread the olives, the cheese, and the pieces of ham in layers on the dough square. Gently roll the dough into a tight cylinder shape. Pinch the edges closed. Use water or egg yolks to make it seal. Pinch the ends closed. Then use dental floss to cut off 1-inch pieces of the roll and place them attractive side up on greased a 9 x 9 pan. Put pan in the oven for 23 minutes. When the times rings, sprinkle more cheese on top and put them back in for 4-5 more minutes. Pull them out and put them on a cooling rack until they cool. If you want to, you sample them before they cool, but you might get hiccups.
Monday, January 17, 2011
My Parents Bring Them!
Yesterday, in my Sunday School classroom of six- and seven-year-olds, a strange thing happened. I came face to face with the horrific, almost blood-curdling monster known to many simply as...honesty. "Yes, it's Mr. Nasty" (from film You've Got Mail). A child not yet eight has, like a liberated turtle, burst forth from the shell of belief to encounter the some of the grand absences of adulthood before his time has come. He no longer (sniff) believes in Santa Claus.
Alright, you're being a little over the top with this, you say.
Am I? I don't think I am actually. Let me tell you exactly what happened, and perhaps you will see what I mean.
Boy #1: I have two loose teeth.
Girl #1: I have a loose tooth too.
Teacher #1: Are you going to get money from the tooth fairy?
Boy #1: Yep. I get a dollar for each tooth I loose; sometimes a dollar-fifty. (Note: Talk about inflated rates; the most I ever got from the tooth fairy was seventy-five cents, and one of the quarters was Canadian. Maybe enamel is just in demand right now; who knows?)
Me: That's pretty awesome.
Boy #2: There isn't any tooth fairy!
Me: What are you talking about?
Boy #2: Parents are the ones who give you money. There isn't I any tooth fairy.
Me: Yes, there is. Now, shush.
Boy #2: But I'm telling there's no tooth fairy. It's parents. And there isn't any Santa Claus either.
Teacher #1: Oh, really? Then who brings presents then at Christmas?
Boy #2: Parents go Christmas shopping and they give the presents.
Me: That's ridiculous [Boy #2].
Boy #2: You're just saying that because you don't want all of the other kids to be sad.
Boy #1: There is too a Santa Claus [Boy #2]. He brought me a scooter for Christmas.
Boy #2: Look, I know there isn't any Santa Claus!
And on and on it went.
Does anyone see a problem here? Anyone at all?
He shouldn't have been sharing certain classified information that he had been privy to?
Getting warmer.
Well, what's the problem then, if not that?
At seven years old, he should not have been given that information in the first place. The truth about Santa's existence is a major step toward putting aside childhood and assuming the role of an adult, or at least at a young adult. The poor boy is not only ruining Christmas for the other children who wish to remain children but he has been robbed prematurely of the mysticism of innocent belief.
So, let this be a warning to all parents who think children have a right to know the "truth": they don't. They have a right to be kids, so let 'em be.
Alright, you're being a little over the top with this, you say.
Am I? I don't think I am actually. Let me tell you exactly what happened, and perhaps you will see what I mean.
Boy #1: I have two loose teeth.
Girl #1: I have a loose tooth too.
Teacher #1: Are you going to get money from the tooth fairy?
Boy #1: Yep. I get a dollar for each tooth I loose; sometimes a dollar-fifty. (Note: Talk about inflated rates; the most I ever got from the tooth fairy was seventy-five cents, and one of the quarters was Canadian. Maybe enamel is just in demand right now; who knows?)
Me: That's pretty awesome.
Boy #2: There isn't any tooth fairy!
Me: What are you talking about?
Boy #2: Parents are the ones who give you money. There isn't I any tooth fairy.
Me: Yes, there is. Now, shush.
Boy #2: But I'm telling there's no tooth fairy. It's parents. And there isn't any Santa Claus either.
Teacher #1: Oh, really? Then who brings presents then at Christmas?
Boy #2: Parents go Christmas shopping and they give the presents.
Me: That's ridiculous [Boy #2].
Boy #2: You're just saying that because you don't want all of the other kids to be sad.
Boy #1: There is too a Santa Claus [Boy #2]. He brought me a scooter for Christmas.
Boy #2: Look, I know there isn't any Santa Claus!
And on and on it went.
Does anyone see a problem here? Anyone at all?
He shouldn't have been sharing certain classified information that he had been privy to?
Getting warmer.
Well, what's the problem then, if not that?
At seven years old, he should not have been given that information in the first place. The truth about Santa's existence is a major step toward putting aside childhood and assuming the role of an adult, or at least at a young adult. The poor boy is not only ruining Christmas for the other children who wish to remain children but he has been robbed prematurely of the mysticism of innocent belief.
So, let this be a warning to all parents who think children have a right to know the "truth": they don't. They have a right to be kids, so let 'em be.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
"Everybody's Looking for Answers"
You may have noticed that I write a lot about asking questions; I have noticed this myself. Perhaps you wonder what my obsession is with the topic, and it is just as well you should. In addition to being a writer, I also pose as something of an educator, and my philosophy for learning involves encouraging students to ask questions about themselves, their world, how they see their world, and how others see it.
It took me almost six semesters in college before I really understood the potential impact of the question-asking principle. Burrowing into the fibers of a particular subject leads, at times, to fascination and love for the subject, and such attachment would likely not arise without questions being proffered.
Yes-or-no questions give us quick and easy resolutions. Philosophical questions like "What is truth?" or "What is life?" "What is love?" ("Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more" [from Haddaway's song What Is Love?) lead to long, drawn-out debates and discussion on the metaphysical sinews of being and feeling. Hypothetical questions allow us to ponder what is in comparison to what could be. Rhetorical questions deliberately do not incite a verbal response but rather a mental one.
You know, asking questions, or rather good questions, can even make you famous. Allen Ginsberg, who said, "When can I go into a supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?" (from poem "America") is one of these. Another is Pablo Neruda, who asked, "Hay algo mas triste en el mundo / que un tren inmovil en la lluvia?" (translation: "Is there anything in the world sadder than a unmoving train in the rain?") (from "III" in Libro de Preguntas).
Another good question-asker was Andy Rooney. A star reporter for many years on the TV show 60 Minutes, Andy Rooney, respected by many people of all classes, denominations, ethnicities, races, and political parties, was always after truth, and his questions were meant to achieve that (Unlike Bill O' Reilly whose questions are usually meant to incite an in-studio riot or emotional argument which will once again serve, in his estimation, to further denigrate the "pinheads" he allows on his show).
I remember once watching Rich Little, a famous impressionist, doing his impression of Andy Rooney and illustrating Andy's uncanny ability to get to the meat of an issue. "Here's few things that bother me," he said in Andy's characteristically nasally voice. "Why do they sterilize needles for lethal injection? Why did kamikaze pilots wear helmets? I don't understand that at all....If you choke a Smurf, what color would he turn?"
Of course, there is some exaggeration there; after all, Rich Little is in the business of not only mimicking but also parodying. However, the principle remains the same: if there are no Nerudas, no Ginbergs, no Rooneys, and no one willing to take their place and ask the questions that need to be voiced, what will become of education then? Our minds will never be enlightened because no one will find the answers to question such as the following?
Where does hope end and faith begin?
Do dreams actually come true?
If Justin Bieber were a girl, would his voice be lower?
Will referees ever call a perfect football game?
Why do women always look like they want to kill someone when they head into the aisle of feminine hygiene products at the store? (Note: that's what we call a rhetorical question)
Is it considered streaking if you run through the pool area of a nudist colony with all of your clothes on?
Why does every Billy Cosby impersonator have to talk about Jell-o?
How does Zorro jump on his horse that way without ever injuring himself?
Would Eminem do better as an announcer at a Thanksgiving all-female dog show, or would he be better off commentating the Kentucky Derby? ("And here comes the filly, Two Trailer Park Girls, running strong; yes, it's Two Trailer Park Girls, and Two Trailer Park Girls goes round the outside, round the outside, round the outside!")
So who will find the answers for us, if you and I are unwilling?
"That, detective, is the right question. Program terminated" (from film I, Robot).
It took me almost six semesters in college before I really understood the potential impact of the question-asking principle. Burrowing into the fibers of a particular subject leads, at times, to fascination and love for the subject, and such attachment would likely not arise without questions being proffered.
Yes-or-no questions give us quick and easy resolutions. Philosophical questions like "What is truth?" or "What is life?" "What is love?" ("Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more" [from Haddaway's song What Is Love?) lead to long, drawn-out debates and discussion on the metaphysical sinews of being and feeling. Hypothetical questions allow us to ponder what is in comparison to what could be. Rhetorical questions deliberately do not incite a verbal response but rather a mental one.
You know, asking questions, or rather good questions, can even make you famous. Allen Ginsberg, who said, "When can I go into a supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?" (from poem "America") is one of these. Another is Pablo Neruda, who asked, "Hay algo mas triste en el mundo / que un tren inmovil en la lluvia?" (translation: "Is there anything in the world sadder than a unmoving train in the rain?") (from "III" in Libro de Preguntas).
Another good question-asker was Andy Rooney. A star reporter for many years on the TV show 60 Minutes, Andy Rooney, respected by many people of all classes, denominations, ethnicities, races, and political parties, was always after truth, and his questions were meant to achieve that (Unlike Bill O' Reilly whose questions are usually meant to incite an in-studio riot or emotional argument which will once again serve, in his estimation, to further denigrate the "pinheads" he allows on his show).
I remember once watching Rich Little, a famous impressionist, doing his impression of Andy Rooney and illustrating Andy's uncanny ability to get to the meat of an issue. "Here's few things that bother me," he said in Andy's characteristically nasally voice. "Why do they sterilize needles for lethal injection? Why did kamikaze pilots wear helmets? I don't understand that at all....If you choke a Smurf, what color would he turn?"
Of course, there is some exaggeration there; after all, Rich Little is in the business of not only mimicking but also parodying. However, the principle remains the same: if there are no Nerudas, no Ginbergs, no Rooneys, and no one willing to take their place and ask the questions that need to be voiced, what will become of education then? Our minds will never be enlightened because no one will find the answers to question such as the following?
Where does hope end and faith begin?
Do dreams actually come true?
If Justin Bieber were a girl, would his voice be lower?
Will referees ever call a perfect football game?
Why do women always look like they want to kill someone when they head into the aisle of feminine hygiene products at the store? (Note: that's what we call a rhetorical question)
Is it considered streaking if you run through the pool area of a nudist colony with all of your clothes on?
Why does every Billy Cosby impersonator have to talk about Jell-o?
How does Zorro jump on his horse that way without ever injuring himself?
Would Eminem do better as an announcer at a Thanksgiving all-female dog show, or would he be better off commentating the Kentucky Derby? ("And here comes the filly, Two Trailer Park Girls, running strong; yes, it's Two Trailer Park Girls, and Two Trailer Park Girls goes round the outside, round the outside, round the outside!")
So who will find the answers for us, if you and I are unwilling?
"That, detective, is the right question. Program terminated" (from film I, Robot).
Basketball Essentials
Now, I have been playing and watching basketball my whole life, and I happen to enjoy the sport immensely. I haven't always enjoyed it as much as I do now. Growing up, my brother used to play basketball with me; sometimes my little sister would play with us (she would be on his team because he was better than I was and that assured her a victory), but generally it was just me and my brother locked in mortal combat. Now, understand this: my brother has always been and will continue to be a superior athlete, therefore my whole life, minus one day, has passed in missed lay-ups, stolen dribbles, and blocked shots (after a while, the humiliation of being beaten time after time wore off simply because I became habituated to the idea of defeat). Though I must say, one day I did win 51-48 (we always played it first one to 50), but, of course, I only won because I had learned how to shoot a bank shot from the three-point line which was a cheap way to win (and obviously I still nearly didn't). My brother wouldn't stoop to such nonsense, but then again he didn't have to.
[Note: My sister, who apparently does not like being called my little sister (even though she is younger and smaller than I am), wants me to make it clear that she played on my team as well. She switched teams depending on who had the ball. Not that it makes a whole lot of difference because a team of my brother and her was still a lot better than a team of me and her. Consequently, she still picked up the wins. She also picked up a black eye once when we played baseball, but that's another story. A funy story, but another story regardless. Also, when I say that the previously mentioned was the only time I ever beat my brother in basketball (I never beat him in baseball), I mean when it was just him and me playing. My sister and I may have beaten him at some time, though I don't remember that]
[Note: My sister, who apparently does not like being called my little sister (even though she is younger and smaller than I am), wants me to make it clear that she played on my team as well. She switched teams depending on who had the ball. Not that it makes a whole lot of difference because a team of my brother and her was still a lot better than a team of me and her. Consequently, she still picked up the wins. She also picked up a black eye once when we played baseball, but that's another story. A funy story, but another story regardless. Also, when I say that the previously mentioned was the only time I ever beat my brother in basketball (I never beat him in baseball), I mean when it was just him and me playing. My sister and I may have beaten him at some time, though I don't remember that]
So, "as I was about to say when truth broke in with all that matter of fact" (from Robert Frost's "Birches") about losing to my brother in basketball, tonight I had a few of the basic principles of basketball reaffirmed to me at the college basketball game I attended. Here are a few.
The Refs Are Always against the Home Team:
No matter how many they call on both sides of the floor, the referees are never able to call the game as the crowd or coaches would. Especially the crowd. However, that should be a relief to the refs because, should there be any doubt about what to do in a given situation, the crowd and the coaches know exactly who to call the foul on. Just ask them. "His foot was not on the line!" "Hey, that foul was intentional!" "Ref, pull your head out and get your eyes checked! The guy was hacked!" See, they know what to do. Now, just do what they say and they won't boo you.
Hot Dogs Taste Better at a Game:
I'm not a great fan of hot dogs. If I had a choice between a hot dog and something else, I would probably take something else. However, should I have the choice between eating a concession stand hot dog and not eating at all, I would gladly take the hot dog. Why? Because the hot dog actually tastes good at a basketball game. I'm not sure why this is; I only that it is. And if the hot dog comes with sweet relish and mustard and onions, that only adds to the deliciousness of the all beef frank which comes in a steamed bun and wrapped in foil. Of course, I was unable to have mustard and onions on my hot dog because the condiment container had been emptied by the other hot-dog eaters at the game, and two somewhat unapproachable females (unapproachable for various reasons which I will not relate) had permanently parked themselves in front of the onion bin. I was robbed and the whole world ought to know about it.
Halftime Entertainment Does Not Mean What It Says It Does:
The only thing true in the phrase "halftime entertainment" is the fact that whatever it is those dancing girls in their pink tank tops and white cargo pants think they are doing (which is generally a series of the same sub-standard hip-hop dance moves over and over) is taking place during the halftime break. However, entertainment it was not. in fact, this was the perfect time to go to the concession stand for my hot dog and Diet Coke.
Cheerleaders Come in All Shapes and Sizes, But Their Irritating Cheers and Pom-Pom Pushing Remains Constant:
I don't think anything more needs to be said on that. Except perhaps "GO! FIGHT! WIN!"
The Winner Has Real Victories; the Loser Has Moral Victories:
This only makes sense. You can't have the W; and the M comes right after the L. If only there were a tournament for teams with the most moral victories. There would so many teams in it that March Madness would roll right on through April Anxiety into May Mania.
Friday, January 14, 2011
What If Life...: Episode 2
When I wrote the first segment of "What If Life..." back on November 20, 2010, I was not planning on writing a follow-up. In fact, that day I was experiencing a formidable wall of writer's block. At last, like a regular Joshua, I broke the wall down by making up a load of nonsense about worlds based on certain themes, like John Wayne and Rocky movies, musicals, and professional wrestling. It was all complete balderdash (like many of the things I write), but I did not care. I just needed to post something, and the idea of alternate worlds was something. At least, I thought it was something.
Then, the readership thought it was something. Really something.
Now, as an encore and because of my affection for the readership, I have decided to write another segment of "What If Life...".
I thought a while about possible themes. I thought, "How would a Food Network world be?" But it was too simple. In a Food Network world, we'd all talk like we were from Savannah, Georgia, brag about our shrimp an' grits and chicken-fried steak, and look like clones of Paula Dean. Like I said, too simple. But here are some other possibilities.
...Mr. Roger's Neighborhood?
Pros: This world has quite a bit to offer in the way of education, so all of the children here are quite bright. Everyone wears red and blue cardigans, takes off their penny loafers and puts on a pair of tennis shoes when they come home, and lives alone with only a family of puppets. It sounds fun, doesn't it? Well, maybe you should sing about it.
"It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood, it's a beautiful day for a neighbor, would you be mine, could you be mine, would you be my neighbor?"
Cons: Yes, "what a wonderful world" (from Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World"). Until you find out that your lawn is actually made of green carpet, the houses in the neighborhood are all just models, and your puppet-roomies generally ignore you because they're all in the J room watching King Friday juggle who-knows-what. Does that make you angry? Well, maybe you should sing about it.
"What do you do with the mad that you feel, when you feel so mad you could bite? When the whole wide world seems, oh, so wrong, and nothing you do seems very right? What do you do, do you punch a bag? Do you pound some clay or some dough? Do you round up friends for a game of tag and see how fast you go?"
Do you feel better now? Excellent. Maybe you should sing about that...
Rating: 2 1/2 stars (despite all the singing)
...A Looney Tunes Cartoon?
Pros: In LooneyTunes world, guns don't kill people; knives don't kill people; dynamite doesn't kill people; rockets don't kill people; exploding carrots don't kill people; ACME anvils don't kill people; frying pans don't kill people (though they do change the shape of your head); and even falling off a cliff doesn't kill people (and even the fall itself could be avoid if Wile E. Coyote would remember not to look down). In fact, Chuck Norris doesn't even kill people in LooneyTunes world. In short, LooneyTunes world could very well be the safest place in the universe.
Cons: Most people there have speech impediments. You might not be able to say your r's or your l's. You might not be able to say an "s" without thpitting on thomeone, like Ron Howard in The Music Man. You might even have over-taxed vocal folds like Yosemite Sam.
Rating: Dethpite the thpeakin' problemth, I think itth a great plathe to thit and thtay. Theven thtarth!
...Forrest Gump?
Pros: Anyone can do anything they want in Forrest Gump world, just because their mama says they can and despite the fact that their legless lieutenant thinks they can't. Also, Mama will have lots of old sayings to pass on, and everyone has the chance to single-handedly change the course of history and moon Lyndon Baines Johnson. Further, in Forrest Gump world, everyone has crazy ping pong skills.
Cons: Mama dies. Best friend Bubba dies. Wanton slattern girlfriend who likes to share needles and--surprise!--dies and leaves her kid, who may or may not be yours. Thank goodness you're a naturally good individual (after all, you mow the high scholl football field for free, and how many would do that?).
Rating: Lieutenant Dan, how many stars should it have? Lieutenant Dan!
...An 80s Music Video?
Pros: Once again, we have a world that is quite diverse. It's always edgy and exciting. Dates are never boring becase you never know when the person you're with is suddenly going to turn into a zombie and start dancing around with his undead dance troupe (from Michael Jackson's "Thriller").
Cons: You never know when your date is going to turn into a zombie and start dancing with his undead dance troupe (Is there an echo in here?). Wait, there's the winged choir boys, the ninjas, dancing Native Americans (from Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart"), and cowboys laughing at nerds who are dressed in sleeveless black turtlenecks and red hats that look like overturned cereal bowls. "Crack that whip!" (from Devo's "Whip It"). Okay, who invited Boy George? Hold on; I'm confu...How does Pat Benetar manage to fight off her pimp by shaking her shoulders at him? (from "Love Is a Battlefield") I think I'm going to go hide now.
Rating: Let's just give it...Hey, stop cracking that whip! I'm trying to think. Never mind. 0 stars.
Then, the readership thought it was something. Really something.
Now, as an encore and because of my affection for the readership, I have decided to write another segment of "What If Life...".
I thought a while about possible themes. I thought, "How would a Food Network world be?" But it was too simple. In a Food Network world, we'd all talk like we were from Savannah, Georgia, brag about our shrimp an' grits and chicken-fried steak, and look like clones of Paula Dean. Like I said, too simple. But here are some other possibilities.
...Mr. Roger's Neighborhood?
Pros: This world has quite a bit to offer in the way of education, so all of the children here are quite bright. Everyone wears red and blue cardigans, takes off their penny loafers and puts on a pair of tennis shoes when they come home, and lives alone with only a family of puppets. It sounds fun, doesn't it? Well, maybe you should sing about it.
"It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood, it's a beautiful day for a neighbor, would you be mine, could you be mine, would you be my neighbor?"
Cons: Yes, "what a wonderful world" (from Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World"). Until you find out that your lawn is actually made of green carpet, the houses in the neighborhood are all just models, and your puppet-roomies generally ignore you because they're all in the J room watching King Friday juggle who-knows-what. Does that make you angry? Well, maybe you should sing about it.
"What do you do with the mad that you feel, when you feel so mad you could bite? When the whole wide world seems, oh, so wrong, and nothing you do seems very right? What do you do, do you punch a bag? Do you pound some clay or some dough? Do you round up friends for a game of tag and see how fast you go?"
Do you feel better now? Excellent. Maybe you should sing about that...
Rating: 2 1/2 stars (despite all the singing)
...A Looney Tunes Cartoon?
Pros: In LooneyTunes world, guns don't kill people; knives don't kill people; dynamite doesn't kill people; rockets don't kill people; exploding carrots don't kill people; ACME anvils don't kill people; frying pans don't kill people (though they do change the shape of your head); and even falling off a cliff doesn't kill people (and even the fall itself could be avoid if Wile E. Coyote would remember not to look down). In fact, Chuck Norris doesn't even kill people in LooneyTunes world. In short, LooneyTunes world could very well be the safest place in the universe.
Cons: Most people there have speech impediments. You might not be able to say your r's or your l's. You might not be able to say an "s" without thpitting on thomeone, like Ron Howard in The Music Man. You might even have over-taxed vocal folds like Yosemite Sam.
Rating: Dethpite the thpeakin' problemth, I think itth a great plathe to thit and thtay. Theven thtarth!
...Forrest Gump?
Pros: Anyone can do anything they want in Forrest Gump world, just because their mama says they can and despite the fact that their legless lieutenant thinks they can't. Also, Mama will have lots of old sayings to pass on, and everyone has the chance to single-handedly change the course of history and moon Lyndon Baines Johnson. Further, in Forrest Gump world, everyone has crazy ping pong skills.
Cons: Mama dies. Best friend Bubba dies. Wanton slattern girlfriend who likes to share needles and--surprise!--dies and leaves her kid, who may or may not be yours. Thank goodness you're a naturally good individual (after all, you mow the high scholl football field for free, and how many would do that?).
Rating: Lieutenant Dan, how many stars should it have? Lieutenant Dan!
...An 80s Music Video?
Pros: Once again, we have a world that is quite diverse. It's always edgy and exciting. Dates are never boring becase you never know when the person you're with is suddenly going to turn into a zombie and start dancing around with his undead dance troupe (from Michael Jackson's "Thriller").
Cons: You never know when your date is going to turn into a zombie and start dancing with his undead dance troupe (Is there an echo in here?). Wait, there's the winged choir boys, the ninjas, dancing Native Americans (from Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart"), and cowboys laughing at nerds who are dressed in sleeveless black turtlenecks and red hats that look like overturned cereal bowls. "Crack that whip!" (from Devo's "Whip It"). Okay, who invited Boy George? Hold on; I'm confu...How does Pat Benetar manage to fight off her pimp by shaking her shoulders at him? (from "Love Is a Battlefield") I think I'm going to go hide now.
Rating: Let's just give it...Hey, stop cracking that whip! I'm trying to think. Never mind. 0 stars.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Old Oaken Bucket List
Do you have a bucket list? Do you even know what a bucket list is? That crumpled yet still inspirational piece of yellow-lined paper with items listed in No. 2 pencil from 1-50 of things you plan to do before you (ahem) can't do them anymore.
What? you ask. Are you one of those people who can't say the word die?
Oh, I can say it. I just think there are better ways to say it. More theatrical ways, like "to expire. To pass on. To perish. To peg out. To push up daisies. To push up posies. To become extinct. Curtains, deceased, Demised, departed And defunct. Dead as a doornail. Dead as a herring. Dead as a mutton. Dead as nits. The last breath. Paying a debt to nature. The big sleep. God's way of saying, 'Slow down.'"
"To check out."
"To shuffle off this mortal coil."
"To head for the happy hunting ground."
"To blink for an exceptionally long period of time."
"To find oneself without breath."
"To be the incredible decaying man."
"Worm buffet."
"Kick the bucket."
"Buy the farm."
"Take the cab."
"Cash in your chips." (from film Patch Adams)
However you refer to death, bucket lists are a good way, or so I've been told, of helping people focus on living and living well while breath still resides. Consequently, when we come to die (if we have done our very best to do the things we set out to do and whic are outlined on our list), we shall not be faced with the cruel and icy fact that we have not lived (a paraphrase of Henry David Thoreau's Walden, Chapter 2).
So, how does one begin to construct such a list? Further, how does one avoid the discomfort which associates itself with such a list? After all, the list is not solely about doing, but doing with a deadline in mind (No pun intended, and I mean that). Well, you can't fully escape the thoughts, no matter what Thoreau says about "[putting] to rout all that is not life" (Ibid.). It may be uncomfortable at first, but if you muddle through those feelings, I am certain that the thought of death will lose its sting, swallowed up in the excitement of achieving goals and objectives you have always wanted to attain.
Now, back to the first question: how does one construct such a list? Well, some might tell you to be practical; after all, the items on a practical list are more easily marked off. However, it is your list; you are in charge of what you put on it. If you want to dream, go ahead and dream; as long as your objectives are achieveable in some way, shape, form; by bell, book, and candle; by hook or by crook; by magic or miracle, you can put them on your list "and damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, Enough!" (from Shakespeare's Macbeth). Obviously, if you want to go to Alpha Centauri or Betelgeuse in your own starship, you'll probably want to think twice before putting it on your list because it may not happen in your lifetime (of course,you could have your remains cryogenically frozen and transported to Alpha Centauri in two thousand years when humankind has discovered that technology. Just something to think about). However, if that lovestruck Romeo from A Walk to Remember was able to help his girlie be in two places at once (he cheated, of course, but she was happy with it), then you can surely fly safely past quite a few of the road signs that say "You Can't" and expand the nigh-unlimited realms of what is possible.
Let me show how this is done by illustrating some of the items on my list.
Ride a bike down the Great Wall of China.
Catch a marlin in the Caribbean.
Write a book which unexpectedly lands on the New York Times best-seller list.
Appear on a Food Network TV show. I'd make burgers wrapped in pancetta and smothered in gouda and grilled portabello mushrooms. And instead of a bun, I would use grilled eggplant.
Teach in a university classroom on the twentieth-century authors who have received a Nobel Prize for Literature or Peace. That includes, Marquez, Wiesel, Camus, Soyinka, Beckett, and Hemingway.
Attend a Baltimore Ravens football game.
Sit on a bridge overlooking the Seine, eating baguettes and Emmentaler Grand Cru.
Sing "London Bridge is Falling Down" on the London Bridge.
Be somebody's wish.
Perhaps, you've noticed that some of these are not entirely in my power, and you may think that is unwise of me. Well, you may be right, but I believe that one the great definitions of a bucket list is "an itemized list of dreams." These are some of mine.
What are yours?
What? you ask. Are you one of those people who can't say the word die?
Oh, I can say it. I just think there are better ways to say it. More theatrical ways, like "to expire. To pass on. To perish. To peg out. To push up daisies. To push up posies. To become extinct. Curtains, deceased, Demised, departed And defunct. Dead as a doornail. Dead as a herring. Dead as a mutton. Dead as nits. The last breath. Paying a debt to nature. The big sleep. God's way of saying, 'Slow down.'"
"To check out."
"To shuffle off this mortal coil."
"To head for the happy hunting ground."
"To blink for an exceptionally long period of time."
"To find oneself without breath."
"To be the incredible decaying man."
"Worm buffet."
"Kick the bucket."
"Buy the farm."
"Take the cab."
"Cash in your chips." (from film Patch Adams)
However you refer to death, bucket lists are a good way, or so I've been told, of helping people focus on living and living well while breath still resides. Consequently, when we come to die (if we have done our very best to do the things we set out to do and whic are outlined on our list), we shall not be faced with the cruel and icy fact that we have not lived (a paraphrase of Henry David Thoreau's Walden, Chapter 2).
So, how does one begin to construct such a list? Further, how does one avoid the discomfort which associates itself with such a list? After all, the list is not solely about doing, but doing with a deadline in mind (No pun intended, and I mean that). Well, you can't fully escape the thoughts, no matter what Thoreau says about "[putting] to rout all that is not life" (Ibid.). It may be uncomfortable at first, but if you muddle through those feelings, I am certain that the thought of death will lose its sting, swallowed up in the excitement of achieving goals and objectives you have always wanted to attain.
Now, back to the first question: how does one construct such a list? Well, some might tell you to be practical; after all, the items on a practical list are more easily marked off. However, it is your list; you are in charge of what you put on it. If you want to dream, go ahead and dream; as long as your objectives are achieveable in some way, shape, form; by bell, book, and candle; by hook or by crook; by magic or miracle, you can put them on your list "and damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, Enough!" (from Shakespeare's Macbeth). Obviously, if you want to go to Alpha Centauri or Betelgeuse in your own starship, you'll probably want to think twice before putting it on your list because it may not happen in your lifetime (of course,you could have your remains cryogenically frozen and transported to Alpha Centauri in two thousand years when humankind has discovered that technology. Just something to think about). However, if that lovestruck Romeo from A Walk to Remember was able to help his girlie be in two places at once (he cheated, of course, but she was happy with it), then you can surely fly safely past quite a few of the road signs that say "You Can't" and expand the nigh-unlimited realms of what is possible.
Let me show how this is done by illustrating some of the items on my list.
Ride a bike down the Great Wall of China.
Catch a marlin in the Caribbean.
Write a book which unexpectedly lands on the New York Times best-seller list.
Appear on a Food Network TV show. I'd make burgers wrapped in pancetta and smothered in gouda and grilled portabello mushrooms. And instead of a bun, I would use grilled eggplant.
Teach in a university classroom on the twentieth-century authors who have received a Nobel Prize for Literature or Peace. That includes, Marquez, Wiesel, Camus, Soyinka, Beckett, and Hemingway.
Attend a Baltimore Ravens football game.
Sit on a bridge overlooking the Seine, eating baguettes and Emmentaler Grand Cru.
Sing "London Bridge is Falling Down" on the London Bridge.
Be somebody's wish.
Perhaps, you've noticed that some of these are not entirely in my power, and you may think that is unwise of me. Well, you may be right, but I believe that one the great definitions of a bucket list is "an itemized list of dreams." These are some of mine.
What are yours?
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
"It's Tr-Tr-Tr-Tricky", But It Doesn't Have to Be
(Note: The quotation in the title is a reference to a RUN-DMC song)
Do you crave notoriety? Fame? Money? Do you want to be a celebrity? An actor perhaps? Or a singer/songwriter like Jewel or Lady Gaga? Do you read People and Redbook and The Inquirer and The Globe and Time and wish you were the people of whom they're writing and whose pictures they're doctoring?
If you said yes to any of the above, know that there is a way to do it. You just haven't found your niche yet. It's possible that you aren't good-looking enough to be in movies, and you can't carry a tune in a waste basket (and if you could carry one, that's probably where you'd carry it). But have no fear. I am here to tell you that you can still make it as....
(Dun dun dun)
A rap artist.
A rap artist? you say. That's your plan? You want me to be a rap artist?
Hey, it's a great idea, whether you're a male or female. All you need is a little know-how. Put your hair in cornrows, wear fur and gold chains with your Knicks jersey, and put in some gold teeth, and you've got it made.
And that's all I have to do? you ask.
Well...no. No. It isn't. I have one more gift for you before you try to become the next big thing in music.
What is it?
I'm going to give you some pointers on how to write a rap song. Then you'll be all set to go.
(For their help with my research, I would personally like to thank Eminem, RUN-DMC, Public Enemy, Sugar Hill Gang, Tupac Shakur, Fresh Prince a.k.a. Will Smith, DJ Jazzy Jeff, House of Pain, Coolio, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Ludacris, West Side Connection, Grandmaster Flash, Outkast, Sir Mix-a-Lot, Biggie Smalls, 50 Cent, Jay-Z, Ja Rule, and the Black-Eyed Peas)
The Ten Commandments of Rap-Writing
10. Keep the rhyme going (no matter what). Rhyme is one of the fundamentals of rap, so you'll want to acquaint yourself with the mechanics of masculine, feminine, and slant rhyme. Generally speaking, masculine rhyme, or one-syllable rhymes, are quite popular. In the song, "Lose Yourself", Eminem rhymes decides to rhyme the words go, blow, and yo. Exquisite use of masculine rhyme.
Of course, elsewhere in the song, he uses a great deal of slant rhyme (in fact, the song is dominated by slant rhyme), or rhyme that has a similar vowel sound but is not completely identical in its consonant sounds. The advantage with slant rhyme is greater freedom of expression because there are more words with similar vowels than there words which are exact in both vowel and consonant endings. Eminem uses this method by rhyming sweaty, spaghetti, heavy, already, ready, and forgetting (Note: Because of consonant and vowel endings, not to mention Eminem's particular brand of American dialect, spaghetti, sweaty, ready, and already are examples of exact feminine rhyme, or rhymes of two syllables or more; however, he throws heavy and forgetting into the mix, which are examples of slant rhyme).
Feminine rhyme is a lot more interesting and complex because it involves matching two or more syllables at the end of a line. Suppose for some reason you want to rhyme something with supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. It's going to be difficult to do a feminine rhyme, but if you can pull it off without breaking the rhythm, you'll have a great result. You might need to insert some slant rhyme to make it work, but it can be done. I'll prove it.
"Here's a good example now of how I would approach this,
There goes Mary Poppins now, an' everybody knows this,
Fo' shizzle, yeah, my nizzle, yeah,
She comes from Nacogdoches;
It's supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
Word."
Rhymes: check. Rhythm: check. Outstanding: nah.
9. Make up words. Making up words to put in your rhymes often obscures the meaning slightly, but it does make rhyming easier, kind of like Ogden Nash rhyming important with oughtn't by spelling it ortant (from Ogden Nash's "Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man"). Of course, thanks to Snoop Dogg, we know that there is an easier way to use this method of made-up words. Snoop Dogg sticks the ending -izzle onto everything. Problem solved. If everything ends in -izzle, then everything rhymes. You are now free to say whatever you want.
I asked my nizzle
For some bizzle,
He said, no wizzle,
So I bustizzle
A capizzle
In his shizzle buttizzle.
Fo' rizzle.
Yes, I made that up, but only to demonstrate this tip in application.
8. Involve the audience and pander to them. The audience wants to feel like part of the performance so make sure you tell them to clap their hands or sing with you or just put their hands in the air. You can go the Sugar Hill Gang route with this ("Everybody say, Oooh!" "Oooh!" "Everybody say, Aaah!" "Aaah!"), or you can try the Jay-Z method, which not only includes thanking the audience for being there to see "the eighth wonder of the world" (that's Jay-Z, if you didn't know) but also telling them, "This is the anthem so gitcha d--- hands up" (from Jay-Z song "H to the Izzo"; I don't if he took that line from watching Cops too often, but there it is). Make the crowd participate.
7. Use filler words. These words include, but are not limited to, the following: yeah (pronounced YEE-uh), unh, yo, word, life, like, 'sup, fool, the name of your rap group, and a few profanities which I will not list here. Sucker used to be high on the list of filler words, but it's been out of style since Run-DMC ran it into the ground (see RUN-DMC's "Sucker MCs). West Side!
6. Use the same words over and over. If you run out of stuff to say, don't panic. Just use key words in the song again and again and again. For example, if you look at Public Enemy's song "He Got Game," you will notice that 12 of the 18 lines in the chorus end with word game. "What is game? Who got game? / Where's the game / in life? / Behind the game / Behind the game / I got game / She got game / We got game / They got game / He got game."
If they can do it, you can do it.
5. Talk about the things you got (or talk about things you don't got, but act like you got 'em). "I'm an educated fool with money on my mind / Got my ten in my hand and a gleam in my eye" (Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise"). You need to discuss these things openly with your audience. Let them know the truth: you got mo' money than you know what do with. However, remember the audience isn't stupid. They know you don't bathe in gold dust or have platinum rims on your Escalade. However, that should not stop you from pretending like you do. Just don't be delusional.
The pope uses soap,
But that's not for me, nope;
I don't like Dove, if the truth be told,
I can't use nothin' if it ain't made of gold.
Fool!
I bathe in the stuff,
I can't get enough;
The old school's out,
Cuz' I'm bringin' in the new;
An' my gold dust is cool
Cuz' it's in my shampoo.
Unh, unh. Yeah, yeah.
Putchya hands up.
Unh, unh. Yeah, yeah.
Wow. That was sweet (Yes, I just made that up right now, and, no, Digital Underground did not help me with the lyrics).
4. Don't be afraid to be ridiculous. See example above in number 5. See also Fresh Prince's "Nightmare on My Street" for further examples.
3. Be philosophical. This will give your song 1% of depth to your 99% of vapid rhymes and vague social references. For example, Jay-Z said, "He who does not feel me is not real to me / Therefore he doesn't exist, / So poof...you son of a...." (from "H to the Izzo"). Never mind what comes next, because that sentence alone is so profound I am shaking right now thinking about the philosophical implications. That Jay-Z is one smart man. YEE-uh.
2. Talk about what's wrong with the world. To illustrate this, I could cite any number of rap songs. However, I believe, once again, Public Enemy does this as well or better than anyone else: "Human beings scream vocal javelins /...my wandering / got [me] wondering / where Christ is / in all this crisis / Hatin' Satan / never knew what nice is / Check the papers / while I bet on Isis / more than your eye can see/ and ears can hear / year by year / all the sense disappears / nonsense perseveres / prayers laced wit fear / beware" (from "He Got Game"). This need to talk about what's going on the world doesn't show up in rap as much as it used to; however, the Black-Eyes Peas' song "Where Is the Love?" is a great example of this.
1. Use someone else's beat/song and blend it with your own. Jay-Z took from the musical Annie ("Hard-Knock Life"), Chuck D used Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth" ("He Got Game"), and of course--my personal favorite--Vanilla Ice stole the beat from Queen's "Under Pressure" for "Ice, Ice, Baby." All of these songs have been quite successful, so feel free to follow their example. Ask for permission first, though.
Bonus Features
A: Profanity is optional, yet trendy
B: Wear cool accessories, like necklaces with giant clock pendants (Thanks, Flava Flav, for being such a trend-setter)
C: Present-day rap priority list: beat first, message second (but it only if you have time for it)
"Consider this a invitation to ma' gangsta nation" (West Side Connection)
Word.
Do you crave notoriety? Fame? Money? Do you want to be a celebrity? An actor perhaps? Or a singer/songwriter like Jewel or Lady Gaga? Do you read People and Redbook and The Inquirer and The Globe and Time and wish you were the people of whom they're writing and whose pictures they're doctoring?
If you said yes to any of the above, know that there is a way to do it. You just haven't found your niche yet. It's possible that you aren't good-looking enough to be in movies, and you can't carry a tune in a waste basket (and if you could carry one, that's probably where you'd carry it). But have no fear. I am here to tell you that you can still make it as....
(Dun dun dun)
A rap artist.
A rap artist? you say. That's your plan? You want me to be a rap artist?
Hey, it's a great idea, whether you're a male or female. All you need is a little know-how. Put your hair in cornrows, wear fur and gold chains with your Knicks jersey, and put in some gold teeth, and you've got it made.
And that's all I have to do? you ask.
Well...no. No. It isn't. I have one more gift for you before you try to become the next big thing in music.
What is it?
I'm going to give you some pointers on how to write a rap song. Then you'll be all set to go.
(For their help with my research, I would personally like to thank Eminem, RUN-DMC, Public Enemy, Sugar Hill Gang, Tupac Shakur, Fresh Prince a.k.a. Will Smith, DJ Jazzy Jeff, House of Pain, Coolio, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Ludacris, West Side Connection, Grandmaster Flash, Outkast, Sir Mix-a-Lot, Biggie Smalls, 50 Cent, Jay-Z, Ja Rule, and the Black-Eyed Peas)
The Ten Commandments of Rap-Writing
10. Keep the rhyme going (no matter what). Rhyme is one of the fundamentals of rap, so you'll want to acquaint yourself with the mechanics of masculine, feminine, and slant rhyme. Generally speaking, masculine rhyme, or one-syllable rhymes, are quite popular. In the song, "Lose Yourself", Eminem rhymes decides to rhyme the words go, blow, and yo. Exquisite use of masculine rhyme.
Of course, elsewhere in the song, he uses a great deal of slant rhyme (in fact, the song is dominated by slant rhyme), or rhyme that has a similar vowel sound but is not completely identical in its consonant sounds. The advantage with slant rhyme is greater freedom of expression because there are more words with similar vowels than there words which are exact in both vowel and consonant endings. Eminem uses this method by rhyming sweaty, spaghetti, heavy, already, ready, and forgetting (Note: Because of consonant and vowel endings, not to mention Eminem's particular brand of American dialect, spaghetti, sweaty, ready, and already are examples of exact feminine rhyme, or rhymes of two syllables or more; however, he throws heavy and forgetting into the mix, which are examples of slant rhyme).
Feminine rhyme is a lot more interesting and complex because it involves matching two or more syllables at the end of a line. Suppose for some reason you want to rhyme something with supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. It's going to be difficult to do a feminine rhyme, but if you can pull it off without breaking the rhythm, you'll have a great result. You might need to insert some slant rhyme to make it work, but it can be done. I'll prove it.
"Here's a good example now of how I would approach this,
There goes Mary Poppins now, an' everybody knows this,
Fo' shizzle, yeah, my nizzle, yeah,
She comes from Nacogdoches;
It's supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
Word."
Rhymes: check. Rhythm: check. Outstanding: nah.
9. Make up words. Making up words to put in your rhymes often obscures the meaning slightly, but it does make rhyming easier, kind of like Ogden Nash rhyming important with oughtn't by spelling it ortant (from Ogden Nash's "Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man"). Of course, thanks to Snoop Dogg, we know that there is an easier way to use this method of made-up words. Snoop Dogg sticks the ending -izzle onto everything. Problem solved. If everything ends in -izzle, then everything rhymes. You are now free to say whatever you want.
I asked my nizzle
For some bizzle,
He said, no wizzle,
So I bustizzle
A capizzle
In his shizzle buttizzle.
Fo' rizzle.
Yes, I made that up, but only to demonstrate this tip in application.
8. Involve the audience and pander to them. The audience wants to feel like part of the performance so make sure you tell them to clap their hands or sing with you or just put their hands in the air. You can go the Sugar Hill Gang route with this ("Everybody say, Oooh!" "Oooh!" "Everybody say, Aaah!" "Aaah!"), or you can try the Jay-Z method, which not only includes thanking the audience for being there to see "the eighth wonder of the world" (that's Jay-Z, if you didn't know) but also telling them, "This is the anthem so gitcha d--- hands up" (from Jay-Z song "H to the Izzo"; I don't if he took that line from watching Cops too often, but there it is). Make the crowd participate.
7. Use filler words. These words include, but are not limited to, the following: yeah (pronounced YEE-uh), unh, yo, word, life, like, 'sup, fool, the name of your rap group, and a few profanities which I will not list here. Sucker used to be high on the list of filler words, but it's been out of style since Run-DMC ran it into the ground (see RUN-DMC's "Sucker MCs). West Side!
6. Use the same words over and over. If you run out of stuff to say, don't panic. Just use key words in the song again and again and again. For example, if you look at Public Enemy's song "He Got Game," you will notice that 12 of the 18 lines in the chorus end with word game. "What is game? Who got game? / Where's the game / in life? / Behind the game / Behind the game / I got game / She got game / We got game / They got game / He got game."
If they can do it, you can do it.
5. Talk about the things you got (or talk about things you don't got, but act like you got 'em). "I'm an educated fool with money on my mind / Got my ten in my hand and a gleam in my eye" (Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise"). You need to discuss these things openly with your audience. Let them know the truth: you got mo' money than you know what do with. However, remember the audience isn't stupid. They know you don't bathe in gold dust or have platinum rims on your Escalade. However, that should not stop you from pretending like you do. Just don't be delusional.
The pope uses soap,
But that's not for me, nope;
I don't like Dove, if the truth be told,
I can't use nothin' if it ain't made of gold.
Fool!
I bathe in the stuff,
I can't get enough;
The old school's out,
Cuz' I'm bringin' in the new;
An' my gold dust is cool
Cuz' it's in my shampoo.
Unh, unh. Yeah, yeah.
Putchya hands up.
Unh, unh. Yeah, yeah.
Wow. That was sweet (Yes, I just made that up right now, and, no, Digital Underground did not help me with the lyrics).
4. Don't be afraid to be ridiculous. See example above in number 5. See also Fresh Prince's "Nightmare on My Street" for further examples.
3. Be philosophical. This will give your song 1% of depth to your 99% of vapid rhymes and vague social references. For example, Jay-Z said, "He who does not feel me is not real to me / Therefore he doesn't exist, / So poof...you son of a...." (from "H to the Izzo"). Never mind what comes next, because that sentence alone is so profound I am shaking right now thinking about the philosophical implications. That Jay-Z is one smart man. YEE-uh.
2. Talk about what's wrong with the world. To illustrate this, I could cite any number of rap songs. However, I believe, once again, Public Enemy does this as well or better than anyone else: "Human beings scream vocal javelins /...my wandering / got [me] wondering / where Christ is / in all this crisis / Hatin' Satan / never knew what nice is / Check the papers / while I bet on Isis / more than your eye can see/ and ears can hear / year by year / all the sense disappears / nonsense perseveres / prayers laced wit fear / beware" (from "He Got Game"). This need to talk about what's going on the world doesn't show up in rap as much as it used to; however, the Black-Eyes Peas' song "Where Is the Love?" is a great example of this.
1. Use someone else's beat/song and blend it with your own. Jay-Z took from the musical Annie ("Hard-Knock Life"), Chuck D used Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth" ("He Got Game"), and of course--my personal favorite--Vanilla Ice stole the beat from Queen's "Under Pressure" for "Ice, Ice, Baby." All of these songs have been quite successful, so feel free to follow their example. Ask for permission first, though.
Bonus Features
A: Profanity is optional, yet trendy
B: Wear cool accessories, like necklaces with giant clock pendants (Thanks, Flava Flav, for being such a trend-setter)
C: Present-day rap priority list: beat first, message second (but it only if you have time for it)
"Consider this a invitation to ma' gangsta nation" (West Side Connection)
Word.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Could You Please Repeat the Question?
Human beings are obsessed with categorizing and defining and labeling, etc. We do it with everything. Animals and plants have their specific class, kingdom, phylum, genus, family, and so on. Animals can be invertabrates, mammals, reptiles, fish, amphibians, and birds. Fish can be meat-eaters or plankton-eaters...anyway, you get the point. We are driven by this idea of classification because we cannot stand the thought of someone or something existing without some sort of imposed restriction. We do the same with people. People are white and black and brown and green (that color of course depending on which planet they're from); they're Jewish or Christian or Muslim or Buddhist or Zoroastrian; they're American or European or Asian or Australian; they're male and female, young and old, bond and free, dumb and dumber, and so on ad nauseum. The problem is that we form groups, the subgroups, then sub-subgroups, then sub-sub-subgroups, until we've broken down each thing until it belongs in a microcosm all its own.
Such a waste of time and energy.
There must be an easier way to subdivide the terrestrial populace. We don't need millions and billions of groups and sub-groups; five or six might do the trick and then we won't have all of those definitions to worry about or keep track of.
In the spirit of this undertaking, I have devised a foolproof way to simplify all of these silly classifications, at least as far as people are concerned. We invite each individual into a room and have a nice chat. Maybe ask some questions. Based on our impressions and their answers and reactions during the conversation, we can divide them into the following five groups.
Group 1. The Smart Alecs
These sorts of people are always fun to converse with. They have delightfully creative and witty responses. Their heroes tend to be people like Bugs Bunny, The Animaniacs, Don Rickles, and Cary Elwes in Robin Hood: Men in Tights ("King? What king would that be? King Louie? King Kong? Larry King?").
As far as the Smart Alecs are concerned, even the simplest questions merit witty answers.
Q: What are you making?
A: A mess.
Q: Where are you going?
A: Crazy.
Q: What are you doing?
A: Your mom.
Oh, yes, and did I mention they tend to make every conversation about your mom?
Q: Why do have to make trouble?
A: Why does your mom make trouble?
Q: Do you need a ride?
A: Does your mom need a ride?
Okay, that was over the line, but, they are a delight, aren't they?
Group 2. The Answer-with-a-Questioners
The Answer-with-a-Questioners tend to be slightly paranoid. They think that every question is barbed with malice and tend toward entrapment of some kind. Never expect a direct answer from these people. Here are some examples:
Q: What are you doing?
A: Why do you want to know?
Q: Can't I ask a simple question?
A: Why do have to ask questions at all?
Q: Why are you being evasive?
A: Why are sticking your nose into what doesn't concern you?
Q: Can't I be involved in your life?
A: Can't you be involved in someone else's life?
Q: "I don't know if you're familiar with the belief that some aboriginal tribes hold. It's the concept that a photo might steal a part of your soul. What are your thoughts on that if someone gets his picture taken for a living?"
A: "Well I guess I would have to answer your question with another question. How many abo-diginals do you see modeling?" (from film Zoolander)
Group 3. The Pee-Wee Herman Fan Club
Ah, the Pee-Wee Herman Fan Club; my favorite. These people have slightly less imagination than the Answer-with-a-Questioners and less wit than the Smart Alecs. Also, they age mentally in reverse dog-years, so when they're 28 they can have an effective Battle-of-Wits with a 4-year-old. Well, let me show you:
Q: Isn't this salad great? I love this salad!
A: Well, if you love it so much why don't you marry it?
Q: Did you spill grape juice on the living room floor?
A: Did you spill grape juice on the living room floor?
Q: Why are you repeating what I say?
A: Why are you repeating what I say?
Q: You brat!
A: I know you are, but what am I? (Who's asking the questions now?)
Q: I going to tell Mom! Why are you being so immature?
A: Ha ha! That's the word of the day! Chairy, she just said the word of the day!
Group 4. The Meanies
Often, the Meanies don't even reply. If they do, watch out. They generally get defensive right away. Mess with them, and they will make you pay.
Q: How do I look?
A: Has anyone ever told you how nice you look in that dress?
Q: Oh, that's so sweet! No, no one has.
A: Oh, yeah? Well, good; I won't have to call anyone a liar then. So, let me tell you why no one has ever, EVER told you that you look good in that dress.
We don't need to continue with that one. I think we all know where it's going. The point is, do not, I repeat, do not ever ask these people a question if it concerns appearance because you might not like the answer.
Group 5. The Sincerely Nice
Oh, yes. These people are always, always, kind and helpful. They're helpful and sweet. They would never dream of saying anything mean at any time to anyone. It's not in their nature to be cruel. They say things that Cary Grant would say, things like "You know, that really is a wonderful dress, and you look wonderful in it." Yes, sir, Group 5, like Green Acres, is the place to be. At least, you might think so at first glance.
Unfortunately, according to the dictates of society and the eternal principle that nice guys (and gals) finish last (Why do you think I put them in group 5?), many people will find you boring and undesirable if you are a member of this group. Good luck.
So, go ahead. Pick your clique.
You've now been classified.
Such a waste of time and energy.
There must be an easier way to subdivide the terrestrial populace. We don't need millions and billions of groups and sub-groups; five or six might do the trick and then we won't have all of those definitions to worry about or keep track of.
In the spirit of this undertaking, I have devised a foolproof way to simplify all of these silly classifications, at least as far as people are concerned. We invite each individual into a room and have a nice chat. Maybe ask some questions. Based on our impressions and their answers and reactions during the conversation, we can divide them into the following five groups.
Group 1. The Smart Alecs
These sorts of people are always fun to converse with. They have delightfully creative and witty responses. Their heroes tend to be people like Bugs Bunny, The Animaniacs, Don Rickles, and Cary Elwes in Robin Hood: Men in Tights ("King? What king would that be? King Louie? King Kong? Larry King?").
As far as the Smart Alecs are concerned, even the simplest questions merit witty answers.
Q: What are you making?
A: A mess.
Q: Where are you going?
A: Crazy.
Q: What are you doing?
A: Your mom.
Oh, yes, and did I mention they tend to make every conversation about your mom?
Q: Why do have to make trouble?
A: Why does your mom make trouble?
Q: Do you need a ride?
A: Does your mom need a ride?
Okay, that was over the line, but, they are a delight, aren't they?
Group 2. The Answer-with-a-Questioners
The Answer-with-a-Questioners tend to be slightly paranoid. They think that every question is barbed with malice and tend toward entrapment of some kind. Never expect a direct answer from these people. Here are some examples:
Q: What are you doing?
A: Why do you want to know?
Q: Can't I ask a simple question?
A: Why do have to ask questions at all?
Q: Why are you being evasive?
A: Why are sticking your nose into what doesn't concern you?
Q: Can't I be involved in your life?
A: Can't you be involved in someone else's life?
Q: "I don't know if you're familiar with the belief that some aboriginal tribes hold. It's the concept that a photo might steal a part of your soul. What are your thoughts on that if someone gets his picture taken for a living?"
A: "Well I guess I would have to answer your question with another question. How many abo-diginals do you see modeling?" (from film Zoolander)
Group 3. The Pee-Wee Herman Fan Club
Ah, the Pee-Wee Herman Fan Club; my favorite. These people have slightly less imagination than the Answer-with-a-Questioners and less wit than the Smart Alecs. Also, they age mentally in reverse dog-years, so when they're 28 they can have an effective Battle-of-Wits with a 4-year-old. Well, let me show you:
Q: Isn't this salad great? I love this salad!
A: Well, if you love it so much why don't you marry it?
Q: Did you spill grape juice on the living room floor?
A: Did you spill grape juice on the living room floor?
Q: Why are you repeating what I say?
A: Why are you repeating what I say?
Q: You brat!
A: I know you are, but what am I? (Who's asking the questions now?)
Q: I going to tell Mom! Why are you being so immature?
A: Ha ha! That's the word of the day! Chairy, she just said the word of the day!
Group 4. The Meanies
Often, the Meanies don't even reply. If they do, watch out. They generally get defensive right away. Mess with them, and they will make you pay.
Q: How do I look?
A: Has anyone ever told you how nice you look in that dress?
Q: Oh, that's so sweet! No, no one has.
A: Oh, yeah? Well, good; I won't have to call anyone a liar then. So, let me tell you why no one has ever, EVER told you that you look good in that dress.
We don't need to continue with that one. I think we all know where it's going. The point is, do not, I repeat, do not ever ask these people a question if it concerns appearance because you might not like the answer.
Group 5. The Sincerely Nice
Oh, yes. These people are always, always, kind and helpful. They're helpful and sweet. They would never dream of saying anything mean at any time to anyone. It's not in their nature to be cruel. They say things that Cary Grant would say, things like "You know, that really is a wonderful dress, and you look wonderful in it." Yes, sir, Group 5, like Green Acres, is the place to be. At least, you might think so at first glance.
Unfortunately, according to the dictates of society and the eternal principle that nice guys (and gals) finish last (Why do you think I put them in group 5?), many people will find you boring and undesirable if you are a member of this group. Good luck.
So, go ahead. Pick your clique.
You've now been classified.
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