Yes, this is one of those. Another tense look into the author's psyche. I had another dream last night and I want to tell about it.
Sometimes, dreams can be very scary. Dreams about death and bankruptcy fall into this category.
Sometimes, dreams can be very nice. Dreams about life and opportune inheritances and winning lottery tickets fall into this category.
But sometimes, you get a little of both, mixed into a unconscious cocktail of oddity. Last night, I had one of these.
Now, I don't mean to be awkward in any way, and if at any point this post makes you feel that way, please feel free to stop reading. However, last night, I had a kissing dream. I don't remember who the girl was I was kissing, but I do remember that, I, the slumbering dreamer, felt as virile and confident as Arnold Schwarzenegger in Commando. Then, something happened.
She screamed, "UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" And ran away.
I woke up.
Talk about an unexpected plot twist.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tiredly Busy, Busily Tired
Today has been odd since the very beginning. I remember waking up this morning in a haze. Snow was falling outside my window, which seemed only a continuation of the very odd dreams I experienced during the night, of which I cannot relate because I cannot remember an iota about them except that they were, in fact, odd. I dragged myself to the bathroom and, upon looking at myself and my bloodshot zombie eyes in the mirror, surmised that staying up until 2 a.m. reading One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest had been a rather poor decision on my part, despite the fact that I had been extremely pleased with the overall quality of the book. However, it seems to me that nowadays I am more and more prone to making such decisions wherein I choose the pleasure of reading over the strange ecstasies of a normal REM cycle.
However, though I took my waking slow (see Theodore Roetke's "The Waking") I soon managed to encourage myself to shake off somewhat the residual fatigue of oblivion and put myself to work being useful in some way. And not just in some way, of course; in the way, the best way of being useful, as far as I am concerned: Making food.
In fact, I become so rapt with making food for dinner and so on that I completely forgot to have breakfast until around 2:00 p.m. Some might argue and say I had lunch then, but I have to disagree because, after all, who has Cheerios for lunch? Not I, said the pig.
Anyway, today I made a whole slew of food, both for dinner tonight and for Sunday when we shall be having family over for dinner. I, first of all, made dinner rolls. About five dozen, in fact. Turned out nicely. Then I made two pans of sour cream potatoes. Also turned out nicely (I know because we had three-quarters of a pan for dinner tonight, along with cheeseburgers, which I made as well). Then I made deviled eggs, which were spectacular. I kept picking in them up until dinner, and then I had some more. By the way, when will someone invent angeled eggs?
In addition, I did a load of laundry and read Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. It was good, but certainly odd. And I would know, of course, because I felt very odd myself, this entire day. I told you that I shook off the tiredness with which I awoke, but that is more or less a lie. Today was permeated with haziness and awake-walking. I am surprised I did not lose a finger or two as I was slicing eggs because, to tell the truth, I am not exactly sure I knew what I was doing. However, I still have all of my appendages, and dinner was great, even if I can't remember how exactly I got here.
However, though I took my waking slow (see Theodore Roetke's "The Waking") I soon managed to encourage myself to shake off somewhat the residual fatigue of oblivion and put myself to work being useful in some way. And not just in some way, of course; in the way, the best way of being useful, as far as I am concerned: Making food.
In fact, I become so rapt with making food for dinner and so on that I completely forgot to have breakfast until around 2:00 p.m. Some might argue and say I had lunch then, but I have to disagree because, after all, who has Cheerios for lunch? Not I, said the pig.
Anyway, today I made a whole slew of food, both for dinner tonight and for Sunday when we shall be having family over for dinner. I, first of all, made dinner rolls. About five dozen, in fact. Turned out nicely. Then I made two pans of sour cream potatoes. Also turned out nicely (I know because we had three-quarters of a pan for dinner tonight, along with cheeseburgers, which I made as well). Then I made deviled eggs, which were spectacular. I kept picking in them up until dinner, and then I had some more. By the way, when will someone invent angeled eggs?
In addition, I did a load of laundry and read Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. It was good, but certainly odd. And I would know, of course, because I felt very odd myself, this entire day. I told you that I shook off the tiredness with which I awoke, but that is more or less a lie. Today was permeated with haziness and awake-walking. I am surprised I did not lose a finger or two as I was slicing eggs because, to tell the truth, I am not exactly sure I knew what I was doing. However, I still have all of my appendages, and dinner was great, even if I can't remember how exactly I got here.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Time's a-Changin'
Up until this point, I have been fairly good at keeping up with the grind demanded by this daily blog. I have been able to post (with one or two exceptions) every single day since early November. It has been wonderful for me to share with you, and I have enjoyed the challenge of trying to have something to scribble down, even when ideas are difficult to come by.
Well, it seems that the time to meet that challenge has passed. The desire to keep a daily blog has not been vanquished, no. In fact, I wish I could keep up as I have, but unfortunately it's time for me to face the truth of my position: I have neither the intellectual energy nor the time to continue as I have. If I were somehow a perpetual well of fascinating ideas and catchy witticisms and Johnny-on-the-spot nonsense (which border on outright lies), it might be different; however, I am not exactly as I may appear at times. The well runs dry (as I'm sure we all have experienced), and it requires some time to replenish a barren reservoir, especially a mental one.
Consequently, I will be changing the schedule of my posts from daily to semi-weekly: I shall have a post on Mondays, and one on Thursdays, thus providing me with adequate time, I hope, to somehow wring out some good, solid ideas to share with my readership from my sponge of a brain which is currently yearning for a full bucket.
I appreciate, as always, the continued patronage of my readers, and I hope you will continue to visit my blog in the future. The end is not near, no matter how this post may sound; we are simply entering a new phase our relationship.
Love to you all, and keep the faith, my friends, "for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset....Though much is taken, much abides" (from Alfred Lord Tennyson's "Ulysses").
Well, it seems that the time to meet that challenge has passed. The desire to keep a daily blog has not been vanquished, no. In fact, I wish I could keep up as I have, but unfortunately it's time for me to face the truth of my position: I have neither the intellectual energy nor the time to continue as I have. If I were somehow a perpetual well of fascinating ideas and catchy witticisms and Johnny-on-the-spot nonsense (which border on outright lies), it might be different; however, I am not exactly as I may appear at times. The well runs dry (as I'm sure we all have experienced), and it requires some time to replenish a barren reservoir, especially a mental one.
Consequently, I will be changing the schedule of my posts from daily to semi-weekly: I shall have a post on Mondays, and one on Thursdays, thus providing me with adequate time, I hope, to somehow wring out some good, solid ideas to share with my readership from my sponge of a brain which is currently yearning for a full bucket.
I appreciate, as always, the continued patronage of my readers, and I hope you will continue to visit my blog in the future. The end is not near, no matter how this post may sound; we are simply entering a new phase our relationship.
Love to you all, and keep the faith, my friends, "for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset....Though much is taken, much abides" (from Alfred Lord Tennyson's "Ulysses").
Sunday, February 20, 2011
"Sunday, Bloody Sunday"
I tried a new tactic with the children in my Primary class today. Instead of giving them cookies or sugary treats, I gave them rolls (I made them myself last night), thinking that something healthy might be good for them, as well as keeping them from having a sugar fix during the lesson.
It didn't work.
In fact, they behaved worse than they ever have before in class. I think I may just go back to giving them cookies and fruit snacks in exchange for good behavior. That'll keep 'em in line.
Maybe.
Just as a side note: One of the speakers in church today said the word perfect in his discourse at least 43 times (that's where I lost count), utilizing that term anywhere from 3-10 instances in a single sentence. I think he really wants us to try and be perfect.
Possibly. Unless I missed the point. Wouldn't that be just perfect?
It didn't work.
In fact, they behaved worse than they ever have before in class. I think I may just go back to giving them cookies and fruit snacks in exchange for good behavior. That'll keep 'em in line.
Maybe.
Just as a side note: One of the speakers in church today said the word perfect in his discourse at least 43 times (that's where I lost count), utilizing that term anywhere from 3-10 instances in a single sentence. I think he really wants us to try and be perfect.
Possibly. Unless I missed the point. Wouldn't that be just perfect?
Saturday, February 19, 2011
False Advertising
How is it that so many businesses continue to create commercials which, while putting their company in a better light, falsely depict their products as having a certain effect or possessing a certain appearance? In fact, I'm fairly sure that one cannot watch TV for more than a few seconds without coming across an advertisement that does not bend, stretch, or otherwise disfigure the truth (if not out-and-out breaking it in little pieces, swallowing it, and regurgitating it like a mama robin feeding her young).
For example, Macdonald's food, in reality, looks nothing like it does in the commercial world. Some might even consider the advertised food something of a simulacra, a supposed copy of a copy of something for which there is actually no original (see Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulacrum). If Macdonald's actuall served burgers that looked like burgers (as advertised) then I would have no qualms about eating there at all. As it is however, I refuse to sample their burgers anymore because their burgers are as greasy as a used-car salesman and as thin as a bolemic crack addict.
Or how about those Axe commercials? I have used Axe body spray in the past, but it didn't work the way the commercials said it would. I have never been chased down a beach by thousands of bikini-clad women coming from every direction; I have never had a woman catch a whiff of my Axe body wash and suddenly start saying "Boom chicka wow wow!" and try to rip my clothing off; and I have never gotten hair-action at a party (or anywhere else for that matter). D--- you, Axe, you're full of it.
Movie trailers are the same. In less than a minute of edited clips, a movie trailer can convince an audience that the movie they're going to see is actually pretty good. Then, once in the movie theater, the viewers find out that they had already seen every good scene that the movie had to offer (see Talladega Nights).
Remember the old commercials for York peppermints patties? The people who took a bite would immediately receive the sensation that they were playing hockey in the kitchen or doing the luge down a mountain slope in their recliner "as the wind whips against [their] body!" But I guess it only works for them because when I bite into a York peppermint patty I get the sensation that I'm...biting into a York peppermint patty. No more. No less.
Also, if Doublemint gum really did double your pleasure and double your fun as the advertisements say it does, it would probably sit next to the KY Jelly instead of in the checkout line opposite the tabloids and Soap Opera Guides.
So, how do we fix this? Well, it cannot be fixed. The people who are trying to sell crappy products will ultimately fail if they come out and tell their customers how bad their merchandise is, and those who sell better things than their competition have nothing at all to fix. Further, those whose merchandise is only about as good as the rest of the competitors' (such as Axe) will have to continue trying to find ways to make themselves stand out, even if it means making things up. Therefore, we will continue to exist as we have always existed: being let down by crappy movies whose trailers are better than the real thing; finding more delight in watching commercials about food than actually eating it; and waiting forever for hair action that will never, ever, come.
For example, Macdonald's food, in reality, looks nothing like it does in the commercial world. Some might even consider the advertised food something of a simulacra, a supposed copy of a copy of something for which there is actually no original (see Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulacrum). If Macdonald's actuall served burgers that looked like burgers (as advertised) then I would have no qualms about eating there at all. As it is however, I refuse to sample their burgers anymore because their burgers are as greasy as a used-car salesman and as thin as a bolemic crack addict.
Or how about those Axe commercials? I have used Axe body spray in the past, but it didn't work the way the commercials said it would. I have never been chased down a beach by thousands of bikini-clad women coming from every direction; I have never had a woman catch a whiff of my Axe body wash and suddenly start saying "Boom chicka wow wow!" and try to rip my clothing off; and I have never gotten hair-action at a party (or anywhere else for that matter). D--- you, Axe, you're full of it.
Movie trailers are the same. In less than a minute of edited clips, a movie trailer can convince an audience that the movie they're going to see is actually pretty good. Then, once in the movie theater, the viewers find out that they had already seen every good scene that the movie had to offer (see Talladega Nights).
Remember the old commercials for York peppermints patties? The people who took a bite would immediately receive the sensation that they were playing hockey in the kitchen or doing the luge down a mountain slope in their recliner "as the wind whips against [their] body!" But I guess it only works for them because when I bite into a York peppermint patty I get the sensation that I'm...biting into a York peppermint patty. No more. No less.
Also, if Doublemint gum really did double your pleasure and double your fun as the advertisements say it does, it would probably sit next to the KY Jelly instead of in the checkout line opposite the tabloids and Soap Opera Guides.
So, how do we fix this? Well, it cannot be fixed. The people who are trying to sell crappy products will ultimately fail if they come out and tell their customers how bad their merchandise is, and those who sell better things than their competition have nothing at all to fix. Further, those whose merchandise is only about as good as the rest of the competitors' (such as Axe) will have to continue trying to find ways to make themselves stand out, even if it means making things up. Therefore, we will continue to exist as we have always existed: being let down by crappy movies whose trailers are better than the real thing; finding more delight in watching commercials about food than actually eating it; and waiting forever for hair action that will never, ever, come.
Mistake
I messed up today. Oops.
Substitute-teaching was unfortunately rather trying and stressful on account of certain naughty eighth-graders and the weird Career Day schedule at the middle school. Children were hyper and keyed-up over that, not to mention my over-enthusiastic (which is just a big word for rowdy and obnoxious) students seemed intent on making me pay for my intrusion into their lives, as well as coming between them and their four-day weekend. Needless to say, I was fried by the time I made it home today. So, as I said before, I messed up.
I took a nap.
At 4:30 p.m. Nice move, I know, but I simply couldn't help it.
Consequently, I am up later tonight than I had wanted to be. I would have gone to bed a couple of hours ago, if only I had been tired. Of course, it isn't only the fact that I took a nap which is keeping me up. It's also the fact that I had a craving for ice cream and cookies at 11:00 p.m. I even added some chocolate truffles, but then I decided it was too nasty and junky, so I cut up half a banana to go with it. Made it much healthier, of course, and soothed my conscience. It also infused my body with enough sugar to keep me going for a fortnight without blinking, and since then I have been sitting on the couch reading Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin and watching old episodes of Newsradio (I just finished the second season). D--- those late night cravings and occasional weakness for vanilla ice cream. Sometimes, I'm just tempted above that which I am able, I guess (and yes, I know that is not in keeping with biblical teaching, but it sure feels that way sometimes). Another truffle or two, and I probably would have gone into a diabetic coma; the bright side of that would have been the fact that I at least would be sleeping right now. The dark side: you would not have a new blog post to read today (Did you think I was going to say being in a diabetic coma?). Anyway, when it does wear off, I hope no one wakes me up until Monday; otherwise, I might get angry. You won't like me when I'm angry (Note: I will wake up for about three hours on Sunday for church, but directly after I will come home and go immediately back to bed; I have learned my lesson about late-night snacking and sugar intake. At least for a while).
Substitute-teaching was unfortunately rather trying and stressful on account of certain naughty eighth-graders and the weird Career Day schedule at the middle school. Children were hyper and keyed-up over that, not to mention my over-enthusiastic (which is just a big word for rowdy and obnoxious) students seemed intent on making me pay for my intrusion into their lives, as well as coming between them and their four-day weekend. Needless to say, I was fried by the time I made it home today. So, as I said before, I messed up.
I took a nap.
At 4:30 p.m. Nice move, I know, but I simply couldn't help it.
Consequently, I am up later tonight than I had wanted to be. I would have gone to bed a couple of hours ago, if only I had been tired. Of course, it isn't only the fact that I took a nap which is keeping me up. It's also the fact that I had a craving for ice cream and cookies at 11:00 p.m. I even added some chocolate truffles, but then I decided it was too nasty and junky, so I cut up half a banana to go with it. Made it much healthier, of course, and soothed my conscience. It also infused my body with enough sugar to keep me going for a fortnight without blinking, and since then I have been sitting on the couch reading Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin and watching old episodes of Newsradio (I just finished the second season). D--- those late night cravings and occasional weakness for vanilla ice cream. Sometimes, I'm just tempted above that which I am able, I guess (and yes, I know that is not in keeping with biblical teaching, but it sure feels that way sometimes). Another truffle or two, and I probably would have gone into a diabetic coma; the bright side of that would have been the fact that I at least would be sleeping right now. The dark side: you would not have a new blog post to read today (Did you think I was going to say being in a diabetic coma?). Anyway, when it does wear off, I hope no one wakes me up until Monday; otherwise, I might get angry. You won't like me when I'm angry (Note: I will wake up for about three hours on Sunday for church, but directly after I will come home and go immediately back to bed; I have learned my lesson about late-night snacking and sugar intake. At least for a while).
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Books I Have Read (or Started Reading or Re-read) in the Last Month (and How I Liked Them)
I would like to give an in-detail rundown of all the books I've read recently, but unfortunately the sheer volume of this task would make an extremely long and laborious post. Therefore, I shall have to be content (as will you) with a shortened list and abbreviated review of each of the books I have read in the last month, beginning with some of the most recent.
The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane
Review: A wonderful little novel that entails blow-by-blow the internal struggle of a young soldier during his first encounters with tragedy and death in the Civil War. Five stars out of four (and yes, I did that on purpose).
The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy
Review: Chronicles the thoughts and emotional turmoil of a Russian judge as he contemplates death, the events which led to it, and the way in which he spent his life. Ultimately, Tolstoy does an outstanding job of pin-pointing different facets of this dying man's attempts to cope with his own impending death. Unfortunately, the lack of dialogue in the story make this short novel seem much longer; however, that does not diminish its essential masterful qualities. Four stars out of four.
The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff
Review: A silly little rundown of instances in which the Bear of Very Little Brain and his friends demonstrate the nuances and idiosyncrasies of Western society and Eastern philosophy. Four stars out of four.
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
Review: Apart from all of the swearing, drinking, smoking, and other naughty things which Holden Caulfield engages in, this book is quite well done. Now, reader who are sensitive to such things can do either of two things: Open your mind and look past Holden's bad qualities in order to enjoy the story, or do not read the book at all. I, for one, being of the former inclination, choose to enjoy the story and the interesting intricacies of Holden's anti-hero persona. Four stars out of four.
The Time Machine by H.G. Wells
Review: For me, this story, though probably very ingenious and imaginative for the time in which it was written, seems only to be a washed-up replica of Jules Verne-like genius. Worse still, Wells seems to focus more on didacticism and propagandization of current trends than telling a story which further detracts from what might have been a more interesting tale. One star out of four.
Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes
Review: Don Quixote de la Mancha is one of my favorite literary figures because his mania for chivalric codes and living out his dream of being a knight presents a wonderful contrast with the people who wish to prevent his sallyings-forth and burn his heretical books of knight-errantry. The question thereby presented is this: Even if it is lunacy to consider oneself a knight when indeed one is not, is it worse than being intolerant and judgmental? It is certainly not a book that all will enjoy because it does tend to become long-winded and dry in places, but I still give it four unreachable stars out of four.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Review: A very short novel, much is packed into its tiny confines. While not everyone's cup of tea, the actions of some of the characters will infuriate anyone. Therefore, if you like the sort of book which will illicit a very real emotional response, this one is a must-read. Three stars out of four.
As I Lay Dying by Willliam Faulkner
Review: I will say the same for this book. The shifting viewpoints creates quite a bit of confusion for the reader, but the anger which one will feel at the end will make up for any inconvenience caused by Faulkner chosen approach to this story. Or mostly make up for it, anyway. Three stars out of four.
Harry Potter volumes 1-7
Review: Each book is better and more engaging than the one before it. As I reached the end, I could not stop reading for the life of me. Five stars out of four.
The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane
Review: A wonderful little novel that entails blow-by-blow the internal struggle of a young soldier during his first encounters with tragedy and death in the Civil War. Five stars out of four (and yes, I did that on purpose).
The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy
Review: Chronicles the thoughts and emotional turmoil of a Russian judge as he contemplates death, the events which led to it, and the way in which he spent his life. Ultimately, Tolstoy does an outstanding job of pin-pointing different facets of this dying man's attempts to cope with his own impending death. Unfortunately, the lack of dialogue in the story make this short novel seem much longer; however, that does not diminish its essential masterful qualities. Four stars out of four.
The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff
Review: A silly little rundown of instances in which the Bear of Very Little Brain and his friends demonstrate the nuances and idiosyncrasies of Western society and Eastern philosophy. Four stars out of four.
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
Review: Apart from all of the swearing, drinking, smoking, and other naughty things which Holden Caulfield engages in, this book is quite well done. Now, reader who are sensitive to such things can do either of two things: Open your mind and look past Holden's bad qualities in order to enjoy the story, or do not read the book at all. I, for one, being of the former inclination, choose to enjoy the story and the interesting intricacies of Holden's anti-hero persona. Four stars out of four.
The Time Machine by H.G. Wells
Review: For me, this story, though probably very ingenious and imaginative for the time in which it was written, seems only to be a washed-up replica of Jules Verne-like genius. Worse still, Wells seems to focus more on didacticism and propagandization of current trends than telling a story which further detracts from what might have been a more interesting tale. One star out of four.
Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes
Review: Don Quixote de la Mancha is one of my favorite literary figures because his mania for chivalric codes and living out his dream of being a knight presents a wonderful contrast with the people who wish to prevent his sallyings-forth and burn his heretical books of knight-errantry. The question thereby presented is this: Even if it is lunacy to consider oneself a knight when indeed one is not, is it worse than being intolerant and judgmental? It is certainly not a book that all will enjoy because it does tend to become long-winded and dry in places, but I still give it four unreachable stars out of four.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Review: A very short novel, much is packed into its tiny confines. While not everyone's cup of tea, the actions of some of the characters will infuriate anyone. Therefore, if you like the sort of book which will illicit a very real emotional response, this one is a must-read. Three stars out of four.
As I Lay Dying by Willliam Faulkner
Review: I will say the same for this book. The shifting viewpoints creates quite a bit of confusion for the reader, but the anger which one will feel at the end will make up for any inconvenience caused by Faulkner chosen approach to this story. Or mostly make up for it, anyway. Three stars out of four.
Harry Potter volumes 1-7
Review: Each book is better and more engaging than the one before it. As I reached the end, I could not stop reading for the life of me. Five stars out of four.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Elementary, My Dear...
In order to adequately and lucidly set down the events of this day before my brain goes to mush with the lateness of the diminishing hour, I have decided to momentarily set aside Benjamin Hoff's The Tao of Pooh and write this post. Of course, I will subsequently return to Cottleston Pie and the Wu Wei Wu as soon as I am done here, but being the incurably Bisy Backson that I am, I felt I ought to relate my experience at the elementary school today before I am unable to do so in a clear and concise manner. Not that I always have a problem with disclarity and longwindedness (of course I don't). I am not one of those people who sits in the stands yelling "Digression!" (from J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye) every time someone ventures away from the point or takes a slight detour toward point M when traversing the line between A and B. Besides, I have friends who are German, and you can't be friends with a German if you have a problem with thought processes that are sometimes as clear as clay and soliloquys which tend to be as short as a standard State of the Union address. That being said, I will now retreat from my own digression and come to the point.
To begin with, I stayed up far too late last night, as is my usual custom in the event I am either reading a book I enjoy (by the way, Holden Caulfield is one my of new favorite literary characters, despite his pottymouth) or anticipating some new type of experience, and I whole-heartedly expected that teaching fourth-graders would be just such an experience for me. For that purpose, I did "not go gentle into that good night" (from Dylan Thomas's poem "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"), no, indeed, because of my anticipation of "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns" (from Shakespeare's Hamlet). By the way, I don't mean death; I mean the Crimson Point Elementary School classrooms. I really ought to try harder to go to bed early on the nights before I have to substitute-teach, but I can't force myself to do it. It's a curse. If I were scheduled to meet the President of the United States tomorrow, I would no doubt show up for my appointment on time or early, with bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, and a half-empty Rockstar in my hand. Oh well, I'll get over it someday.
Alors, this morning I went to the school for my assignment, arriving exhausted (as I knew I would) and exactly 34 and a half minutes early in order to have sufficient time to glance over the somewhat cryptic lesson plans left by the usual teacher. Finally, with two minutes to spare, I successfully deciphered his instructions and waited for the approach of impending doom in the form of nine- and ten-year-olds. I was never afraid that they might sneak up on me like Morlocks in the dark (see H.G. Wells' The Time Machine), because I was forewarned of their arrival (they were extremely boisterous) approximate 3 minutes and twenty-nine seconds before they had even descended from their respective buses.
Well, the day turned out to be fun, despite my initial nervousness. I had some kids that I know from church and so on, and they proved to be fairly helpful and well-behaved. One of them even told me that she was going to be a good girl today because she did not want me to tell her parents that she behaved poorly. I don't normally like being thought of as a tattletale, but if it motivates children to behave then I am all for it.
We started the day off with long division, and I was glad to find that we were doing math I could help with (I have substituted for pre-algebra and algebra classes in which I was absolutely no help at all, for which fact the students ought to have resented me and did not. At least, not vocally). These children were begging to assist at the board and I obliged. Some of them were even miffed when I chose the same people to help multiple times instead of using people who had not had a turn (though in my defense, it is hard to keep track of 20-odd students in a classroom and who has and has not had a turn at the board).
For the next period, we had reading and vocabulary. Some of the children banded together to become a public nuisance, but I put them in their places during the vocabulary portion by glaring at one naughty bespectacled boy for a full thirty seconds without blinking like "the cat that won't cop out when there's danger all about..."
"You shut yo' mouth!"
"I'm just talking bout Shaft!"
Oh, well then, hmm, I guess, yeah, well, shoot; we can dig it.
"Ya d--- right!"
"Digression!"
Anyway, that boy tried to stare back at me like I was going to back down, but he didn't realize that a Care-Bear stare has nothing on the Scare-Glare that I shared with him in there. He quickly quieted his rebellion and worked without defiance for the rest of the period.
Afterwards, one of the girls approached me on her way out to lunch and told me I had a voice like a gameshow host. She did not say which one, but I can only hope she was talking about Alex Trebek and not Drew Carey.
As part of my assignment, I had to perform recess duty, which means watching the children as they play tackle football when they aren't supposed to and find ways to hurt each other when no one is looking. The recess passed almost without incident, except one girl did get whipped in the eye with a speeding jumprope. However, she was the only casualty of that particular fifteen-minute break, so I count myself lucky, as should they.
The last hour and a quarter passed quickly and fairly quietly, although I did at one point raise my voice, which I had told them I do not like to do. The students had informed me earlier in the day that their normal teacher likes to yell, "FREEZE!" in the middle of class if they become too rowdy. As I walked among the desks, I noticed that the students were chatting instead of working on their science packets, so I stopped and yelled at the top of my voice, "FREEZE!"
They jumped. About a foot. In unison.
Then they laughed.
Then one girl said, "You are now officially Mr. Reno." (Mr. Reno is their usual teacher)
Overall, the day was a positive experience. Now, I could look back on it and remember all of the naughty children who tried to pass notes, and look at each other's work, and talk when they weren't supposed to, but I won't. I absolutely won't. No, that would spoil the whole day, especially the end. During the last fifteen minutes, before everyone had to catch their buses to go home, many of them congregated at the board and began to write messages to me, saying things like "We love you as a teacher, hope to see you again"; "you rock"; " U R awesome"; "You're the best substitute ever"; and finally, "Knock knock. Who's there? Dwayne. Dwayne who? Dwayne the bathtub, I'm dwowning!" (a moldy-oldy joke from the Boys' Life magazines, but the sentiment, if there was any, was still appreciated).
To begin with, I stayed up far too late last night, as is my usual custom in the event I am either reading a book I enjoy (by the way, Holden Caulfield is one my of new favorite literary characters, despite his pottymouth) or anticipating some new type of experience, and I whole-heartedly expected that teaching fourth-graders would be just such an experience for me. For that purpose, I did "not go gentle into that good night" (from Dylan Thomas's poem "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"), no, indeed, because of my anticipation of "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns" (from Shakespeare's Hamlet). By the way, I don't mean death; I mean the Crimson Point Elementary School classrooms. I really ought to try harder to go to bed early on the nights before I have to substitute-teach, but I can't force myself to do it. It's a curse. If I were scheduled to meet the President of the United States tomorrow, I would no doubt show up for my appointment on time or early, with bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, and a half-empty Rockstar in my hand. Oh well, I'll get over it someday.
Alors, this morning I went to the school for my assignment, arriving exhausted (as I knew I would) and exactly 34 and a half minutes early in order to have sufficient time to glance over the somewhat cryptic lesson plans left by the usual teacher. Finally, with two minutes to spare, I successfully deciphered his instructions and waited for the approach of impending doom in the form of nine- and ten-year-olds. I was never afraid that they might sneak up on me like Morlocks in the dark (see H.G. Wells' The Time Machine), because I was forewarned of their arrival (they were extremely boisterous) approximate 3 minutes and twenty-nine seconds before they had even descended from their respective buses.
Well, the day turned out to be fun, despite my initial nervousness. I had some kids that I know from church and so on, and they proved to be fairly helpful and well-behaved. One of them even told me that she was going to be a good girl today because she did not want me to tell her parents that she behaved poorly. I don't normally like being thought of as a tattletale, but if it motivates children to behave then I am all for it.
We started the day off with long division, and I was glad to find that we were doing math I could help with (I have substituted for pre-algebra and algebra classes in which I was absolutely no help at all, for which fact the students ought to have resented me and did not. At least, not vocally). These children were begging to assist at the board and I obliged. Some of them were even miffed when I chose the same people to help multiple times instead of using people who had not had a turn (though in my defense, it is hard to keep track of 20-odd students in a classroom and who has and has not had a turn at the board).
For the next period, we had reading and vocabulary. Some of the children banded together to become a public nuisance, but I put them in their places during the vocabulary portion by glaring at one naughty bespectacled boy for a full thirty seconds without blinking like "the cat that won't cop out when there's danger all about..."
"You shut yo' mouth!"
"I'm just talking bout Shaft!"
Oh, well then, hmm, I guess, yeah, well, shoot; we can dig it.
"Ya d--- right!"
"Digression!"
Anyway, that boy tried to stare back at me like I was going to back down, but he didn't realize that a Care-Bear stare has nothing on the Scare-Glare that I shared with him in there. He quickly quieted his rebellion and worked without defiance for the rest of the period.
Afterwards, one of the girls approached me on her way out to lunch and told me I had a voice like a gameshow host. She did not say which one, but I can only hope she was talking about Alex Trebek and not Drew Carey.
As part of my assignment, I had to perform recess duty, which means watching the children as they play tackle football when they aren't supposed to and find ways to hurt each other when no one is looking. The recess passed almost without incident, except one girl did get whipped in the eye with a speeding jumprope. However, she was the only casualty of that particular fifteen-minute break, so I count myself lucky, as should they.
The last hour and a quarter passed quickly and fairly quietly, although I did at one point raise my voice, which I had told them I do not like to do. The students had informed me earlier in the day that their normal teacher likes to yell, "FREEZE!" in the middle of class if they become too rowdy. As I walked among the desks, I noticed that the students were chatting instead of working on their science packets, so I stopped and yelled at the top of my voice, "FREEZE!"
They jumped. About a foot. In unison.
Then they laughed.
Then one girl said, "You are now officially Mr. Reno." (Mr. Reno is their usual teacher)
Overall, the day was a positive experience. Now, I could look back on it and remember all of the naughty children who tried to pass notes, and look at each other's work, and talk when they weren't supposed to, but I won't. I absolutely won't. No, that would spoil the whole day, especially the end. During the last fifteen minutes, before everyone had to catch their buses to go home, many of them congregated at the board and began to write messages to me, saying things like "We love you as a teacher, hope to see you again"; "you rock"; " U R awesome"; "You're the best substitute ever"; and finally, "Knock knock. Who's there? Dwayne. Dwayne who? Dwayne the bathtub, I'm dwowning!" (a moldy-oldy joke from the Boys' Life magazines, but the sentiment, if there was any, was still appreciated).
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
"I'd Like to Say Something Classy and Inspirational, but That Wouldn't Be [My] Style"
It's true, it's true. I have now officially posted 100 times on my blog since its commencement in early November 2010, and to celebrate this accomplishment, I would like to have 100 people look at my blog. Of course, I have only so many friends who will help me in this attempt. That leaves it to you, readers, to refer your friends to this blog, perhaps by sending them the links to your favorite posts. However, you choose to do it, I know that it can be done.
Now, having used my time today in a manner which befits my usual productive lifestyle, including finishing The Time Machine (which was more or less uninspiring) by the pioneer of prolific propagandaists himself, Mr. H.G. Wells (not to be confused with Orson Welles, of course); beginning The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (I am now seven pages into it and already loving it, though we will see if that feeling lasts throughout the course of the novel); warming up leftover pan burritos for dinner; working on an editing project; and doing my laundry, I am now warming up my fingers and firing up my mental capacities to write something of the concrete and inspirational nature which has accompanied my blogging in the past. Oh, d--- my eyes, I need to take a shower.
However, despite my lack of hygiene on this day of days, good things have happened. My sister gave me a box of chocolate-covered macadamias from Hawaii (which I appreciated very much), not necessarily as a commemoration of my blogging triumph but more as a thank-you for being such an optimum specimen of exemplary brotherhood (and also for the fact that I assisted in the top-quality, around-the-clock care of her vomiting children in her absence). The chocolates were quite delicious, I thought, (my mother and other sister thought so too since they helped themselves as soon as the plastic wrapper came off the box).
[Note: Alright, they did not help themselves; they had one each. But they might have had more had I not quickly repossessed the box once it wandered back into my proximity.]
Also, since I am sharing good news, you should know that I received an e-mail from a grad school today saying that I have been accepted (unofficially) to their English M.A. program. This is my second acceptance e-mail in the last week, and I love not being depressed about being rejected by grad schools (specifically Brigham Young University's, though we have yet to see if they will reject me a second time and cause me to dislike them even more than I already do).
Now, having shared these glad tidings with you, readers, I will proceed to shower, put my laundry in the dryer, read some more of The Catcher in the Rye, and try to become excited about teaching a 4th grade elementary class tomorrow (I've never taught at the elementary school level, so I'm a a little nervous about it).
However, I would like to say a few words to you all, if I may:
"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" (from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone).
Thank you all.
Now, having used my time today in a manner which befits my usual productive lifestyle, including finishing The Time Machine (which was more or less uninspiring) by the pioneer of prolific propagandaists himself, Mr. H.G. Wells (not to be confused with Orson Welles, of course); beginning The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (I am now seven pages into it and already loving it, though we will see if that feeling lasts throughout the course of the novel); warming up leftover pan burritos for dinner; working on an editing project; and doing my laundry, I am now warming up my fingers and firing up my mental capacities to write something of the concrete and inspirational nature which has accompanied my blogging in the past. Oh, d--- my eyes, I need to take a shower.
However, despite my lack of hygiene on this day of days, good things have happened. My sister gave me a box of chocolate-covered macadamias from Hawaii (which I appreciated very much), not necessarily as a commemoration of my blogging triumph but more as a thank-you for being such an optimum specimen of exemplary brotherhood (and also for the fact that I assisted in the top-quality, around-the-clock care of her vomiting children in her absence). The chocolates were quite delicious, I thought, (my mother and other sister thought so too since they helped themselves as soon as the plastic wrapper came off the box).
[Note: Alright, they did not help themselves; they had one each. But they might have had more had I not quickly repossessed the box once it wandered back into my proximity.]
Also, since I am sharing good news, you should know that I received an e-mail from a grad school today saying that I have been accepted (unofficially) to their English M.A. program. This is my second acceptance e-mail in the last week, and I love not being depressed about being rejected by grad schools (specifically Brigham Young University's, though we have yet to see if they will reject me a second time and cause me to dislike them even more than I already do).
Now, having shared these glad tidings with you, readers, I will proceed to shower, put my laundry in the dryer, read some more of The Catcher in the Rye, and try to become excited about teaching a 4th grade elementary class tomorrow (I've never taught at the elementary school level, so I'm a a little nervous about it).
However, I would like to say a few words to you all, if I may:
"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" (from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone).
Thank you all.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Be My Valentine
Valentine's Day. A holiday officially begun near the end of the fifth century by Pope Gelasius I, Valentine's Day is intended to celebrate affection and esteem between lovers. According to tradition and the panepistemic capacity of Wikipedia researchers, St. Valentine lived in the third century and was martyred (beheaded) by Emperor Claudius II [Note: Some might consider the fact that St. Valentine lost his head as an iconic symbol of the effects of love in interpersonal relationships. In fact, they say that such a symbol could only be enhanced had the saint been subsequently castrated]
In recognition of this day, Charles Lamb wrote, "Thou comest attended with thousands and ten thousands of little Loves, and the air is 'brush'd with the hiss of rustling wing.' Singing Cupids are thy choristers and thy precentors; and instead of the crosier, the mystical arrow is borne before thee. In other words, this is the day on which those charming little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each other" and "the weary and all forspent twopenny postman sinks beneath a load of embarassments not his own" (from Lamb's Essays of Elia).
By the way, in case you were wondering, Charles Lamb spent his entire life a bachelor, having been frustrated in his attempts to woo two separate women (Ann Simmons and Fanny Kelly), and lived all the while with his lunatic sister Mary with whom he authored the well-known collection Tales from Shakespeare. Such luck in matters of the heart would have, and has (I'm sure), embittered other, lesser individuals, who tend to regard Valentine's Day with a great deal of contempt and distaste, casting about ill-mannered unpleasantries like envenomed daggers to wound the spirits of those who feel the need to revel in the joy of a day dedicated to love.
Perhaps you know people like this. They are generally single and very, very alone. They spit anti-Valentine propaganda and bite "pretty red heart[s] in two" (from Sylvia Plath's "Daddy"). They complain that the day itself, instead of enhancing the quality of existent relationships and encouraging the increase of love and marital harmony, augments materialistic attitudes and only serves to provide more money for the grocery stores and florist shops and candy-makers and the baby-sitters and the three- to five-star hotels.
On the other hand, there are those who believe in the sentimentality of the day and accuse the accusers of jealousy and envy, saying that they perhaps don't get it because they aren't getting any. These people still put stock in love and effectively increase somebody else's stock in chocolate and flowers.
So which is the correct assessment of the merits of the day of love? Is it meaningful or meaningless? These sorts of questions are the reasons why statements such as "life is more successfully looked at from a single window" (from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby) can be defined as complete and utter bunk.
For me, I believe that Valentine's Day is, if nothing else, certainly worthwhile, even for single people like myself. Even if we haven't got a sweetheart or a Valentine to spend the day with, it serves as a reminder of things which transcend the dreariness of singlehood and reasons for removing ourself from this static state. Rather than give in to jealousy and covetousness by bad-mouthing it and the materialism which Valentine's Day, in all fairness, does seem to promote, perhaps we ought to work harder at finding our own happiness in love, regardless of past and present failures in that regard. Other people have the right to celebrate their love, and we have no right to put that down.
To those who follow the trends of society in celebrating the day of love by giving in to the chocolate and rose-petal cliches advertised by the specialty stores, I have one thing to say: while such things are a nice gesture of affection between significant others, they carry no weight if they are not an extension of your normal behavior. If you never do similar things for your partner or mate or boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever you want to call them, then Valentine's Day will be just as empty and hollow as the bitter and single people say it is. No amount of thoughtfulness one day out of the year can make up for 364 days of neglect and taking others for granted. So, make this day the rest of the year in a concentrated form. A day to celebrate the love and hard work not found in a bouquet of red, red roses or in box of chocolates or chalky conversation hearts.
In recognition of this day, Charles Lamb wrote, "Thou comest attended with thousands and ten thousands of little Loves, and the air is 'brush'd with the hiss of rustling wing.' Singing Cupids are thy choristers and thy precentors; and instead of the crosier, the mystical arrow is borne before thee. In other words, this is the day on which those charming little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each other" and "the weary and all forspent twopenny postman sinks beneath a load of embarassments not his own" (from Lamb's Essays of Elia).
By the way, in case you were wondering, Charles Lamb spent his entire life a bachelor, having been frustrated in his attempts to woo two separate women (Ann Simmons and Fanny Kelly), and lived all the while with his lunatic sister Mary with whom he authored the well-known collection Tales from Shakespeare. Such luck in matters of the heart would have, and has (I'm sure), embittered other, lesser individuals, who tend to regard Valentine's Day with a great deal of contempt and distaste, casting about ill-mannered unpleasantries like envenomed daggers to wound the spirits of those who feel the need to revel in the joy of a day dedicated to love.
Perhaps you know people like this. They are generally single and very, very alone. They spit anti-Valentine propaganda and bite "pretty red heart[s] in two" (from Sylvia Plath's "Daddy"). They complain that the day itself, instead of enhancing the quality of existent relationships and encouraging the increase of love and marital harmony, augments materialistic attitudes and only serves to provide more money for the grocery stores and florist shops and candy-makers and the baby-sitters and the three- to five-star hotels.
On the other hand, there are those who believe in the sentimentality of the day and accuse the accusers of jealousy and envy, saying that they perhaps don't get it because they aren't getting any. These people still put stock in love and effectively increase somebody else's stock in chocolate and flowers.
So which is the correct assessment of the merits of the day of love? Is it meaningful or meaningless? These sorts of questions are the reasons why statements such as "life is more successfully looked at from a single window" (from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby) can be defined as complete and utter bunk.
For me, I believe that Valentine's Day is, if nothing else, certainly worthwhile, even for single people like myself. Even if we haven't got a sweetheart or a Valentine to spend the day with, it serves as a reminder of things which transcend the dreariness of singlehood and reasons for removing ourself from this static state. Rather than give in to jealousy and covetousness by bad-mouthing it and the materialism which Valentine's Day, in all fairness, does seem to promote, perhaps we ought to work harder at finding our own happiness in love, regardless of past and present failures in that regard. Other people have the right to celebrate their love, and we have no right to put that down.
To those who follow the trends of society in celebrating the day of love by giving in to the chocolate and rose-petal cliches advertised by the specialty stores, I have one thing to say: while such things are a nice gesture of affection between significant others, they carry no weight if they are not an extension of your normal behavior. If you never do similar things for your partner or mate or boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever you want to call them, then Valentine's Day will be just as empty and hollow as the bitter and single people say it is. No amount of thoughtfulness one day out of the year can make up for 364 days of neglect and taking others for granted. So, make this day the rest of the year in a concentrated form. A day to celebrate the love and hard work not found in a bouquet of red, red roses or in box of chocolates or chalky conversation hearts.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Living in the Projects (or between Them)
I am a project person. I come from a family of project people. My sisters do projects. My mom does projects. I do projects. (Note: My dad is a project, but tell him I said that. Shhh.).
I'm not sure what it is that drives us. Perhaps it's in our blood to always want something to keep us busy. Of course, the projects that my sisters and my mother focus on are quite a bit different than mine. They tend to make quilts, dishrags, hair bows, thank-you cards, puppets, and so on, and I generally focus more on projects that, instead of fabrics and scrapbooking supplies, focus on different facets of writing: novels, essays, poetry, short stories, etc. Technically, this blog itself is one of my on-going writing projects, and is one of my favorites when I'm not suffering from writer's block.
Well, every once in a while, I come to that barren and stiflingly stagnant wasteland in between the bookends of self-industry in which I have no project to work on (except this one, of course) and no ideas for my next one. I search and contemplate the possibilities, but nothing concrete presents itself. Goodness knows, I do have work enough to do, but I'm not looking for more work; I want a project. A good project that will take a while to complete. In the recent months, I have started a couple of different projects involving collections of poetry, but both ideas, while appearing fresh and interesting initially, have figuratively run aground.
I finished the revisions for one of my books a few weeks ago, and I am currently awaiting feedback on my other one, so I haven't anything to work on as far as my novels are concerned. Further, I am not sure if I should begin to write another and don't know what I would write about even if I decided to embark down that avenue. Up until three days ago, I was working on an essay on T. S. Eliot's poem "The Hollow Men", but I finished it and submitted it to a publisher, so that's not an option anymore. I suppose I could start another essay, a longer one this time, but I can't think of anything regarding which I really am passionate enough to begin doing research at this point. Milton? Hemingway? Faulkner? Cervantes? Stevenson? Too many choices, and no choices at all, and unfortunately figuring it out will take some time. What shall I do in the meantime? I haven't a clue.
Well, that's not exactly true. I do have a clue. I could either sit here and moan about having no project to work on, or simply find something to work on that isn't exactly connected with writing. Perhaps my mental writing-related hemispheres need some rest. Now, I have here on my desk a stack of books on Latin, which I am thinking to utilize in renewing my study of that language. In addition, I have a book of German poetry, another of German short novels, The Divine Comedy, and Don Quixote.
So, maybe if I read all of these books, by the time I finish I will have found something to research, my Latin will have improved, and the feedback on my novel will be back from my readers. Ha! Eureka. (Note: See how useful Latin is?)
I'm not sure what it is that drives us. Perhaps it's in our blood to always want something to keep us busy. Of course, the projects that my sisters and my mother focus on are quite a bit different than mine. They tend to make quilts, dishrags, hair bows, thank-you cards, puppets, and so on, and I generally focus more on projects that, instead of fabrics and scrapbooking supplies, focus on different facets of writing: novels, essays, poetry, short stories, etc. Technically, this blog itself is one of my on-going writing projects, and is one of my favorites when I'm not suffering from writer's block.
Well, every once in a while, I come to that barren and stiflingly stagnant wasteland in between the bookends of self-industry in which I have no project to work on (except this one, of course) and no ideas for my next one. I search and contemplate the possibilities, but nothing concrete presents itself. Goodness knows, I do have work enough to do, but I'm not looking for more work; I want a project. A good project that will take a while to complete. In the recent months, I have started a couple of different projects involving collections of poetry, but both ideas, while appearing fresh and interesting initially, have figuratively run aground.
I finished the revisions for one of my books a few weeks ago, and I am currently awaiting feedback on my other one, so I haven't anything to work on as far as my novels are concerned. Further, I am not sure if I should begin to write another and don't know what I would write about even if I decided to embark down that avenue. Up until three days ago, I was working on an essay on T. S. Eliot's poem "The Hollow Men", but I finished it and submitted it to a publisher, so that's not an option anymore. I suppose I could start another essay, a longer one this time, but I can't think of anything regarding which I really am passionate enough to begin doing research at this point. Milton? Hemingway? Faulkner? Cervantes? Stevenson? Too many choices, and no choices at all, and unfortunately figuring it out will take some time. What shall I do in the meantime? I haven't a clue.
Well, that's not exactly true. I do have a clue. I could either sit here and moan about having no project to work on, or simply find something to work on that isn't exactly connected with writing. Perhaps my mental writing-related hemispheres need some rest. Now, I have here on my desk a stack of books on Latin, which I am thinking to utilize in renewing my study of that language. In addition, I have a book of German poetry, another of German short novels, The Divine Comedy, and Don Quixote.
So, maybe if I read all of these books, by the time I finish I will have found something to research, my Latin will have improved, and the feedback on my novel will be back from my readers. Ha! Eureka. (Note: See how useful Latin is?)
Wal-mart after Hours
Another day. Another dollar. Another puking child. My life recently. I thought we had left it all behind us, but no, we couldn't. Unable to pass up an opportunity to blend in with his other cousins, my other nephew has suddenly decided to throw up. Also, as in the case of the others this week, he waited until night-time to break it to his mother that he was indeed ill. I am not sure how he planned it with such precision, but I do know he pulled it off successfully.
Of course, his situation meant an emergency trip to the store for stomach flu prevention and decontamination supplies for his parents: tea and toothbrushes. Consequently, his father and I went to Walmart to purchase the necessary items.
We found more than we wanted to.
At the entrance, we scooted past an anemic looking bearded fellow who might have passed for Steven Spielberg's father about two hundred years ago. Too tired and grumpy perhaps to give us the traditional "Welcome to Wal-mart" greeting, he allowed us to pass unmolested (for which I am grateful). Then, I saw a man restocking coffee and salad dressing who, I am fairly certain, kept speaking with the mustard bottles. Not that I begrudge his right of free speech, but just because an animate object gives you the ability to feel less lonely at work does not mean it's begging for a conversation. Also in the tea aisle, we were stalked by an old hunch-backed witch with black stretch pants and painted brows; I quickly moved out of her way so as to give her no reason to put a hex on me.
On our way to find the toothbrushes, I saw the love-child of Quasimodo and Agnes Moorehead opening boxes of cheap Wal-mart apparel and sporting horn-rimmed glasses only Gary Larson (The Far Side artist) could really appreciate.
Walking listlessly up and down in the refrigeration area was the twin brother of Richard Gere (either that, or the man who ate Richard Gere and absorbed some of his physical features, which is probably more likely).
Then, an old cavewoman who apparently had stolen Jay Leno's chin and pasted it to her own face, along with a unibrow which was quite a bit higher on the right side than the left, was our cashier.
Finally, right before we left the store, we were passed by a group of four teenagers who seemed to be heading for the cracker and chips aisle for obvious reasons and a teenage zombie brunette wearing a baby-blue belly shirt and what appeared to be a glowstick necklace (or a neon green piece of garden hose; once again, I cannot be certain).
Now, I know what you're thinking right now. You're probably thinking, Hey, this guy is lying again.
Well, what can I say? You got me. I did not tell the complete truth. I may have refashioned reality in order to entertain, but here is the real story.
We actually went to buy Powerade, as well.
Happy now?
Of course, his situation meant an emergency trip to the store for stomach flu prevention and decontamination supplies for his parents: tea and toothbrushes. Consequently, his father and I went to Walmart to purchase the necessary items.
We found more than we wanted to.
At the entrance, we scooted past an anemic looking bearded fellow who might have passed for Steven Spielberg's father about two hundred years ago. Too tired and grumpy perhaps to give us the traditional "Welcome to Wal-mart" greeting, he allowed us to pass unmolested (for which I am grateful). Then, I saw a man restocking coffee and salad dressing who, I am fairly certain, kept speaking with the mustard bottles. Not that I begrudge his right of free speech, but just because an animate object gives you the ability to feel less lonely at work does not mean it's begging for a conversation. Also in the tea aisle, we were stalked by an old hunch-backed witch with black stretch pants and painted brows; I quickly moved out of her way so as to give her no reason to put a hex on me.
On our way to find the toothbrushes, I saw the love-child of Quasimodo and Agnes Moorehead opening boxes of cheap Wal-mart apparel and sporting horn-rimmed glasses only Gary Larson (The Far Side artist) could really appreciate.
Walking listlessly up and down in the refrigeration area was the twin brother of Richard Gere (either that, or the man who ate Richard Gere and absorbed some of his physical features, which is probably more likely).
Then, an old cavewoman who apparently had stolen Jay Leno's chin and pasted it to her own face, along with a unibrow which was quite a bit higher on the right side than the left, was our cashier.
Finally, right before we left the store, we were passed by a group of four teenagers who seemed to be heading for the cracker and chips aisle for obvious reasons and a teenage zombie brunette wearing a baby-blue belly shirt and what appeared to be a glowstick necklace (or a neon green piece of garden hose; once again, I cannot be certain).
Now, I know what you're thinking right now. You're probably thinking, Hey, this guy is lying again.
Well, what can I say? You got me. I did not tell the complete truth. I may have refashioned reality in order to entertain, but here is the real story.
We actually went to buy Powerade, as well.
Happy now?
Friday, February 11, 2011
Another Pizza Night
I realize that I haven't given out very many recipes recently, and I have posted even fewer pictures, both of which are foundation stones for the concept of blogging. Well, I throw myself at your feet and humbly submit these few pictures of pizzas made by me.
Enjoy them, readers!
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| Pepper Pinwheel Sweet yellow peppers, julienned, pepperoni, spicy italian sausage braised in balsamic vinegar and fennel, ham, mozzarella, parmesan cheese. |
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| Smiling Pie (For kids only) Ham, pepperoni, provolone, mozzarella, asiago, parmesan. |
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| Ham and Artichoke with Alfredo and Mozzarella |
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| The Super Bowl Supreme Pineapple chunks, ham, Lil' Smokies diced and rolled in brown sugar, bacon, mozzarella, parmesan, provolone, |
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| Pepperoni with Mozzarella and Parmesan |
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| The Ugly Duckling Artichokes, diced; chicken (not duck) cooked in balsamic, fresca, red pepper, thyme, salt, and pepper; olives, sliced; mozzarella, and parmesan |
Favorite Addictions
When people mention the word addiction, they generally sound off about it with some measure of dislike for the thing, as if an addiction--and those who have them--can be nothing short of disreputable and worthy of despising. Now, I must concur that, in many cases, such an approach to addictions is probably well-founded to say the least. Addictions to pornography, drugs, alcohol, tobacco, or other harmful substances at their very best often lead to minor misbehavior and better test scores and productivity and at their worst to violence and harm to those who use and abuse them, as well as those interacting with the users. It is due to the use and overuse of such substances and their influences on behavior that the word addiction seems to have gained an increasingly poor connotation in our world. After all, when we discuss addictions of various sorts, we almost never speak of the harmless addictions (disguised as social norms), like wearing underwear or cleaning the bathroom on a very regular basis, or of the very good addictions, like taking meals to families in the neighborhood or mowing your parents' lawn in 100+ degree weather without complaining. But no, it never occurs to us to speak of these addictions because we feel the need to associate addiction with harmful actions.
(Note: I have it on good authority [my own] that some among my readers may protest by my including such as things as underwear-wearing and lawn-mowing to a list of addictions, but I am certainly well within my rights to regard such things as addictions, just as you are all in your rights to say I am not within my rights. Now, if you will consult with Merriam-Webster, the denotation [not the connotation mind you, which matters to me not in the slightest] of the word addiction gives me free rein to refer to anything which is done obsessively and habitually as an addiction. Since it is most certainly a habit of mine to don underwear [as I am certain it is for many others] and a task which I perform habitually, I must say that I am most certainly an underwear-wearing addict. If you wish to press the matter further by speaking of pleasure receptors and so on, well, I am afraid I cannot stop you from speaking your mind. However, if you have ever tried to walk around without underwear for a while, you may have felt odd about the whole thing and immediately decided to put some on. That discomfort is a very good indication of your addiction, my friend, a very good indication.).
Now that we have settled (well, perhaps not completely) the matter of what an addiction can and cannot be, I would like to mention a few of the things I have been and continue to be addicted to. I am constantly acquiring new addictions it seems, but they are generally of the harmless or good kind, I believe.
For example, I have an on-again-off-again addiction for eBay. Yes, I like to walk up and down the digital bookshelves of eBay, daring to look but generally not to touch many good and wholesome items. Sometimes however, my willpower dissolves and I become transfixed to the point that I start buying things, things I could do without but which I cannot help but purchase. However, after I have acquired a few things which I will treaure for a very long time no doubt, I come to my senses and pull myself out before I lose my entire will to it. Despite the fact that I am never really free of this addiction, and I feel its pull from time to time, it is, I think, a harmless and even good addiction at times, if if I do not let it get out of hand.
Further, I am also addicted to cooking. Some people would disagree that this is an addiction, using such words as hobby, pastime, leisure activity, or even passion to describe my affinity for the culinary arts. Well, once again that is their opinion. Not a bad opinion, or even a disagreeable one, but it is an opinion, and I shall leave it at that. When I am in the kitchen, I become frightfully possessive of the space around me and whatever happens to be in the oven or on the stove. If people come in and attempt to snoop or extract secrets from me, I shoo them out or send them packing with poisonous looks, envenomed by non-verbal curse words. They soon get the hint and flee before my basilisk stares. Yes, my friends, I am afraid I can be more than a bit obsessive when I am cooking, especially when something doesn't come out right (I feel very blue about that for hours and hours) or something does come out right after many hours of strenuous labor over a hot range and someone at the table feels the need to complain that it is not to his or her liking (Note: No one is making you eat it, so don't, but keep your comments to yourself, rude thing).
My latest and greatest addiction, though, is for the Harry Potter series. I have withstood constant teasing and good-natured ribbing over the years because I have resisted many recommendations that I read the Harry Potter books. I hate most trends and bandwagons equally, and therefore I have shunned Harry Potter as though I were King Laius and he were my son Oedipus left to perish on a Theban hillside with his ankles tied together. And he could have perished too for all have cared these many years of resisting peer pressure.
Finally, the day arrived when I decided for myself (this day happened a couple of weeks ago) that it was time to see what they were all about. By now, the hullaboo about the books has died down somewhat, leaving me free of the wheels of the passing bandwagons with the bandied shouts and meaningless racket of their occupants. My sister brought one home from the library, and I read it in about three hours. Then, I went to the library the next week and checked out 2, 3, and 4. I read them all in two days' time. This week, I returned again to the library and checked out 5, 6, and 7. Two more days, and I finished those as well. For those of you who care (and for those of you don't) I am currently writing this post at 4:21 a.m and as sleep-deprived (if not more so) than a college students during finals week, mostly because of the recent sickness which has invaded our house but also because I could not put those books down. I finished The Half-Blood Prince at 9:00 and immediately started in to read The Deathly Hallows. I simply had to know how it all ended. I was mad with curiosity, and stayed up until 50 minutes ago finishing the series. While I realize that I have cost myself a good deal of repose in the process, the truth is I never would have been able to sleep after Snape killed Dumbledore anyway. No, indeed, I was better off surrendeding myself to the obsession by staying up and finding out the truth. Some of you may call this obsession, this addiction even, harmful because I am robbing my body (which is still recovering from illness) of much-needed sleep, and once again I will not argue with you, not because I cannot, but rather because I do not wish to. Your opinion is, of course, your opinion in the end. The only difference between your opinion and mine, in this case anyway, is that mine suits me better than yours does. If that ever changes, I shall make sure to let you know.
(Note: I have it on good authority [my own] that some among my readers may protest by my including such as things as underwear-wearing and lawn-mowing to a list of addictions, but I am certainly well within my rights to regard such things as addictions, just as you are all in your rights to say I am not within my rights. Now, if you will consult with Merriam-Webster, the denotation [not the connotation mind you, which matters to me not in the slightest] of the word addiction gives me free rein to refer to anything which is done obsessively and habitually as an addiction. Since it is most certainly a habit of mine to don underwear [as I am certain it is for many others] and a task which I perform habitually, I must say that I am most certainly an underwear-wearing addict. If you wish to press the matter further by speaking of pleasure receptors and so on, well, I am afraid I cannot stop you from speaking your mind. However, if you have ever tried to walk around without underwear for a while, you may have felt odd about the whole thing and immediately decided to put some on. That discomfort is a very good indication of your addiction, my friend, a very good indication.).
Now that we have settled (well, perhaps not completely) the matter of what an addiction can and cannot be, I would like to mention a few of the things I have been and continue to be addicted to. I am constantly acquiring new addictions it seems, but they are generally of the harmless or good kind, I believe.
For example, I have an on-again-off-again addiction for eBay. Yes, I like to walk up and down the digital bookshelves of eBay, daring to look but generally not to touch many good and wholesome items. Sometimes however, my willpower dissolves and I become transfixed to the point that I start buying things, things I could do without but which I cannot help but purchase. However, after I have acquired a few things which I will treaure for a very long time no doubt, I come to my senses and pull myself out before I lose my entire will to it. Despite the fact that I am never really free of this addiction, and I feel its pull from time to time, it is, I think, a harmless and even good addiction at times, if if I do not let it get out of hand.
Further, I am also addicted to cooking. Some people would disagree that this is an addiction, using such words as hobby, pastime, leisure activity, or even passion to describe my affinity for the culinary arts. Well, once again that is their opinion. Not a bad opinion, or even a disagreeable one, but it is an opinion, and I shall leave it at that. When I am in the kitchen, I become frightfully possessive of the space around me and whatever happens to be in the oven or on the stove. If people come in and attempt to snoop or extract secrets from me, I shoo them out or send them packing with poisonous looks, envenomed by non-verbal curse words. They soon get the hint and flee before my basilisk stares. Yes, my friends, I am afraid I can be more than a bit obsessive when I am cooking, especially when something doesn't come out right (I feel very blue about that for hours and hours) or something does come out right after many hours of strenuous labor over a hot range and someone at the table feels the need to complain that it is not to his or her liking (Note: No one is making you eat it, so don't, but keep your comments to yourself, rude thing).
My latest and greatest addiction, though, is for the Harry Potter series. I have withstood constant teasing and good-natured ribbing over the years because I have resisted many recommendations that I read the Harry Potter books. I hate most trends and bandwagons equally, and therefore I have shunned Harry Potter as though I were King Laius and he were my son Oedipus left to perish on a Theban hillside with his ankles tied together. And he could have perished too for all have cared these many years of resisting peer pressure.
Finally, the day arrived when I decided for myself (this day happened a couple of weeks ago) that it was time to see what they were all about. By now, the hullaboo about the books has died down somewhat, leaving me free of the wheels of the passing bandwagons with the bandied shouts and meaningless racket of their occupants. My sister brought one home from the library, and I read it in about three hours. Then, I went to the library the next week and checked out 2, 3, and 4. I read them all in two days' time. This week, I returned again to the library and checked out 5, 6, and 7. Two more days, and I finished those as well. For those of you who care (and for those of you don't) I am currently writing this post at 4:21 a.m and as sleep-deprived (if not more so) than a college students during finals week, mostly because of the recent sickness which has invaded our house but also because I could not put those books down. I finished The Half-Blood Prince at 9:00 and immediately started in to read The Deathly Hallows. I simply had to know how it all ended. I was mad with curiosity, and stayed up until 50 minutes ago finishing the series. While I realize that I have cost myself a good deal of repose in the process, the truth is I never would have been able to sleep after Snape killed Dumbledore anyway. No, indeed, I was better off surrendeding myself to the obsession by staying up and finding out the truth. Some of you may call this obsession, this addiction even, harmful because I am robbing my body (which is still recovering from illness) of much-needed sleep, and once again I will not argue with you, not because I cannot, but rather because I do not wish to. Your opinion is, of course, your opinion in the end. The only difference between your opinion and mine, in this case anyway, is that mine suits me better than yours does. If that ever changes, I shall make sure to let you know.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Stomach Flu
So, my entire family has now come down with the flu. Well, not the entire family; only those who reside at my home address and some who are simply visiting. It began, of course, some few days ago when my niece suddenly commenced throwing up at my brother's place. Her brother contracted this illness a few days later, and offhandedly gave us all the opportunity of contracting it. Needless to say, we unknowingly and unwittingly took him up on it. My mum, dad, two sisters, and me are now reduced greatly in energy and strength. I myself have been fortunate to have recovered, seemingly, much quicker than they all, and have therefore been occupied with supplying my fellow sufferers with whatsoever they stand in need of. I have never run up and down the stair so many times in a single day, I think, nor shall I ever, I hope, do so again. "Jeff?" their voices float through my door. "Jeff, can you get me some water?" "Jeff, I'd like some toast, please." "Jeff, your sister's throwing up again; would you mind helping her with the bowl?"
The answer, of course, is always the same. If I have been lucky enough to escape my bout of illness with minimal damage, then it is indubitably my responsibility to take care of those less fortunate than I. It's isn't easy, not by a long shot. But it is more rewarding than just about everything else you've done in a day because you put other people's needs above your own. I am currently sleep deprived having had two all-nighters in the past two days, and I am halfway to pulling one more tonight, and I have spent my day fetching and carrying and so on.
Now, I do not wish to come across as a braggart, extoling my own praises for the things I've done today. My only wish is to teach those who read my blog something I learned through personal experience. When it comes to family and helping those who cannot help themselves, we should be willing, without reservation and regardless of personal inconvenience, submit ourselves to the task presented to us. Nothing can be greater or more fulfilling than the feeling derived from effort expended in the behalf of family members who cannot do for themselves. In fact, that feeling is probably the only reason I am able to write coherently at this moment.
The answer, of course, is always the same. If I have been lucky enough to escape my bout of illness with minimal damage, then it is indubitably my responsibility to take care of those less fortunate than I. It's isn't easy, not by a long shot. But it is more rewarding than just about everything else you've done in a day because you put other people's needs above your own. I am currently sleep deprived having had two all-nighters in the past two days, and I am halfway to pulling one more tonight, and I have spent my day fetching and carrying and so on.
Now, I do not wish to come across as a braggart, extoling my own praises for the things I've done today. My only wish is to teach those who read my blog something I learned through personal experience. When it comes to family and helping those who cannot help themselves, we should be willing, without reservation and regardless of personal inconvenience, submit ourselves to the task presented to us. Nothing can be greater or more fulfilling than the feeling derived from effort expended in the behalf of family members who cannot do for themselves. In fact, that feeling is probably the only reason I am able to write coherently at this moment.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
"Come Inside, It's Fun Inside"
Right now my nephew and niece are watching Little Einsteins with my sister in the living room. I'm always amazed by the amount of educational material the creators of that show can fit into each episode. It's quite good really. In fact, even though it is intended for small children, Little Einsteins and other TV shows like Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Dora the Explorer have a lot to offer even for adult viewers such as myself. It's almost as good as watching Jeopardy.
However, my affinity for kids shows of this genre only extends so far.
Why? you ask.
Because I can't stand the staring. The blinking.
What do you mean? you ask, wrinkling your brow.
I mean, whenever the character on the TV asks the audience to do something like sing or dance or raise their arms high in the air and say, "Blast off!" they stare at you as if they are actually waiting for a response.
And they blink.
Then they act like you have done whatever they asked or responded to their question in some way, even if you haven't. I at times feel the urge to turn away or close my own lids in order to avoid those creepy "eyes I dare not meet in dreams" (from T. S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"). This is perhaps one of my only criticisms of such educational television shows. Please, animators, make them less frightening while they are waiting for a reply.
My other criticism (yes, I have only two criticisms for the shows named above; I would have plenty more if we were talking about The Wiggles and Imagination Movers, but I will not waste digital white space and your time [or mine] in discussing them) is the misnomer interactive TV show. In my opinion, we should probably refrain from referring to shows as interactive because, well, they really aren't interactive at all. Such an appellation suggests that they illicit certain responses and then respond accordingly. But they don't. If you say you don't want to sing with Annie as Rocket as they go on their mission to rescue the lost dragon kites in time to save the kite parade by the Great Wall of China, she'll still act like you said yes. When Mickey Mouse asks if you want to help save Goofy's cattle from falling into the nearby river, you don't actually have to answer him; you merely wait and he'll act as though you volunteered. An interactive Mickey would say, "You want to help me rescue Goofy's cows?" and when you don't respond he would say, "Well, do you?" or "Why are you ignoring me?"
The same could be said for an interactive Dora. "Do you know how to count to ten in Spanish?" Pause. Blinking. "I said," she repeats louder, "Do you know how to count to ten in Spanish?" Another pause. More blinking. Her eyes turn angry. "¡Ai caramba! Escuchenme, cabrones, escuchenme bien. Si no hacen como los dije, los mato como las gallinas en la calle sin salida! Entienden, muchachos?" Then, the phone rings and a raspy voice says, "Uno, dos, tres, quattro, cinco, seis, siete dias...." Click. Fortunately for the viewers though, Dora, unlike Samara (see film The Ring), won't be able to emerge from the well and climb through the television screen to make good on her threats. "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggety dog!" (see Disney's Mickey Mouse Clubhouse)
However, my affinity for kids shows of this genre only extends so far.
Why? you ask.
Because I can't stand the staring. The blinking.
What do you mean? you ask, wrinkling your brow.
I mean, whenever the character on the TV asks the audience to do something like sing or dance or raise their arms high in the air and say, "Blast off!" they stare at you as if they are actually waiting for a response.
And they blink.
Then they act like you have done whatever they asked or responded to their question in some way, even if you haven't. I at times feel the urge to turn away or close my own lids in order to avoid those creepy "eyes I dare not meet in dreams" (from T. S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"). This is perhaps one of my only criticisms of such educational television shows. Please, animators, make them less frightening while they are waiting for a reply.
My other criticism (yes, I have only two criticisms for the shows named above; I would have plenty more if we were talking about The Wiggles and Imagination Movers, but I will not waste digital white space and your time [or mine] in discussing them) is the misnomer interactive TV show. In my opinion, we should probably refrain from referring to shows as interactive because, well, they really aren't interactive at all. Such an appellation suggests that they illicit certain responses and then respond accordingly. But they don't. If you say you don't want to sing with Annie as Rocket as they go on their mission to rescue the lost dragon kites in time to save the kite parade by the Great Wall of China, she'll still act like you said yes. When Mickey Mouse asks if you want to help save Goofy's cattle from falling into the nearby river, you don't actually have to answer him; you merely wait and he'll act as though you volunteered. An interactive Mickey would say, "You want to help me rescue Goofy's cows?" and when you don't respond he would say, "Well, do you?" or "Why are you ignoring me?"
The same could be said for an interactive Dora. "Do you know how to count to ten in Spanish?" Pause. Blinking. "I said," she repeats louder, "Do you know how to count to ten in Spanish?" Another pause. More blinking. Her eyes turn angry. "¡Ai caramba! Escuchenme, cabrones, escuchenme bien. Si no hacen como los dije, los mato como las gallinas en la calle sin salida! Entienden, muchachos?" Then, the phone rings and a raspy voice says, "Uno, dos, tres, quattro, cinco, seis, siete dias...." Click. Fortunately for the viewers though, Dora, unlike Samara (see film The Ring), won't be able to emerge from the well and climb through the television screen to make good on her threats. "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggety dog!" (see Disney's Mickey Mouse Clubhouse)
Monday, February 7, 2011
Type-Casting
When I was little, I remember watching afternoon cartoons on TV (probably Animaniacs) and seeing a commercial for a local science fiction convention. One of the main attractions of the convention, according to the voice on the advertisement would be a visit by John de Lancie from Star Trek: The Next Generation. Then, probably as a somewhat necessary addendum, the voice continued, "You know, Q."
Yes, we know Q. We don't know John de Lancie. And that, my friends, is an illustration of the danger of type-casting.
Many great actors, including Sylvester Stallone and Matt Damon (among others), have managed to escape this snare by taking on diverse roles and doing well in them. Sure, we remember Sylvester mostly for being a tough guy from roles in Rocky, Rambo, Demolition Man, The Expendables, and Judge Dredd (not that we want to remember that one), but then there are the other lead roles in movies such as Oscar, F.I.S.T., Victory, and Rhinestone Cowboy (another one we'd rather not remember) in which he had to find another dimension in his acting because he couldn't just pass the hour and a half or two hours by hitting people with his fists or blowing them with grenade-tipped arrows.
However, they are the lucky few. They have had enough skill and good sense to find roles which pushed them as actors and not to settle into a certain type of role or allow themselves to be remember for a playing only a single character. Unfortunately, many have not followed suit, including:
Mark Hamill: Luke Skywalker in Star Wars
Sean Astin: Rudy in Rudy, Samwise Gamgee in Lord of the Rings
Dolph Lundgren: The Russian in Rocky IV
Billy Boyd: Pippin in Lord of the Rings (people don't realize he plaed a midshipman in Master and Commander)
Daniel Radcliffe: Harry Potter in Harry Potter
The kid who played Simon Birch: Simon Birch in Simon Birch
Macaulay Culkin: Kevin in Home Alone and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York City
Leonard Nimoy: Spock in Star Trek
For these people, as well as many others, they will always be identified more easily by the role they played than by their actual names. Their being cast in a certain type of role, though giving them a name (though the name is that of a character and not their own), has probably served as something of a hindrance and lessened their credibility as actors because the audience sees them not as Rupert Grint and Lacey Chabert but rather as Ron Weasley (Harry Potter) and Gretchen Wieners (Mean Girls). It's unfortunate, but it's true.
So, what separates certain actors from others when it comes type-casting? How do some actors, i.e. Patrick Stewart, Brent Spiner, William Shatner, on Star Trek escape the type-casting, while other Star Trek actors, i.e. Jordy, Counselor Troi, and Commander Riker (who's only memorable line is "Red alert!"), are doomed to remain forever as characters rather than actual people? Some of it, I'm sure has to do with level of ability; some of it, as in the case of William Shatner, is probably a matter of luck.
But don't worry, kid who played Simon Birch on Simon Birch; even if we can't remember your name, at least you know you won't forgotten. That is, your character won't be forgotten. Of course, I can't forget your name either because I never knew it in the first place. Sorry.
Yes, we know Q. We don't know John de Lancie. And that, my friends, is an illustration of the danger of type-casting.
Many great actors, including Sylvester Stallone and Matt Damon (among others), have managed to escape this snare by taking on diverse roles and doing well in them. Sure, we remember Sylvester mostly for being a tough guy from roles in Rocky, Rambo, Demolition Man, The Expendables, and Judge Dredd (not that we want to remember that one), but then there are the other lead roles in movies such as Oscar, F.I.S.T., Victory, and Rhinestone Cowboy (another one we'd rather not remember) in which he had to find another dimension in his acting because he couldn't just pass the hour and a half or two hours by hitting people with his fists or blowing them with grenade-tipped arrows.
However, they are the lucky few. They have had enough skill and good sense to find roles which pushed them as actors and not to settle into a certain type of role or allow themselves to be remember for a playing only a single character. Unfortunately, many have not followed suit, including:
Mark Hamill: Luke Skywalker in Star Wars
Sean Astin: Rudy in Rudy, Samwise Gamgee in Lord of the Rings
Dolph Lundgren: The Russian in Rocky IV
Billy Boyd: Pippin in Lord of the Rings (people don't realize he plaed a midshipman in Master and Commander)
Daniel Radcliffe: Harry Potter in Harry Potter
The kid who played Simon Birch: Simon Birch in Simon Birch
Macaulay Culkin: Kevin in Home Alone and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York City
Leonard Nimoy: Spock in Star Trek
For these people, as well as many others, they will always be identified more easily by the role they played than by their actual names. Their being cast in a certain type of role, though giving them a name (though the name is that of a character and not their own), has probably served as something of a hindrance and lessened their credibility as actors because the audience sees them not as Rupert Grint and Lacey Chabert but rather as Ron Weasley (Harry Potter) and Gretchen Wieners (Mean Girls). It's unfortunate, but it's true.
So, what separates certain actors from others when it comes type-casting? How do some actors, i.e. Patrick Stewart, Brent Spiner, William Shatner, on Star Trek escape the type-casting, while other Star Trek actors, i.e. Jordy, Counselor Troi, and Commander Riker (who's only memorable line is "Red alert!"), are doomed to remain forever as characters rather than actual people? Some of it, I'm sure has to do with level of ability; some of it, as in the case of William Shatner, is probably a matter of luck.
But don't worry, kid who played Simon Birch on Simon Birch; even if we can't remember your name, at least you know you won't forgotten. That is, your character won't be forgotten. Of course, I can't forget your name either because I never knew it in the first place. Sorry.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Italy
This month marks the five-year anniversary of my return from Italy. Haven't been back since then. I've thought about it a lot, and to tell the truth this time of year makes me miss it even more. Whenever I tell people that I've been to and lived in Italy, they generally say the same things. "Oh, I've always wanted to go to Italy!" or "I love Italian food!" or "I'm planning on going to Italy soon!" Sometimes, if they're really oblivious or simply have no sensitivity in their taste buds, they'll say, "My mom makes the best spaghetti in the world with Prego spaghetti suace and sliced hot dogs." Ugh.
Well, let me tell you a little secret: Italy is more than food and architecture and art and gondola rides. From the persepctive of one who has lived there for a couple of years, I will tell you exactly why the thought of Italy is such a strong source of nostalgia.
I miss walking everywhere. Lots of people in Italy have automobiles, but they really aren't necessary unless you want to go to the seashore, and even then it's just as easy to take a bus or a train. When you are in town, everything is so close together that one does not have to drive to the grocery store, to the church, or the downtown/ centro area. There aren 't any hills most of the time either, so it's easy to walk for miles without becoming exhausted. However, what I love most about walking is the attitude of not being in such a hurry to get somewhere that you need to take the car. Of course, that's probably part of the reason why many Italians are chronically late to everything, but which is worse: running around so quickly that you never enjoy anything or never being on time? I would say the former.
I miss playing frisbee by the Mediterranean at 6:00 a.m.
I miss the cafes and the pizzerias and the gelato shops.
I miss drinking San Pellegrino Chinotto by the liter.
I miss talking to the weirdos and lunatics every day. The guy who said Jesus was a fornicator and the Apostle John was a homosexual. The hairy-chested bum who walked around Main Street with no shirt or shoes and slept on a bench. The fellow who quoted the Lord's Prayer to me in Latin for no reason at all. The priest who wouldn't stop putting his hand on my shoulder. The old men who asked me daily if I'd been to the local whorehouse. The codger who was missing teeth and couldn't keep his saliva inside his mouth. The girl who walked by me in the street every day and asked if I would give her my tie (I think she was after something else, but I can't be sure). I miss the crazy man who walked past my apartment and made faces at me. I miss Maxwell and Ayo and James and all the rest of the African immigrants on the bus. I miss them every one of them.
I miss buying focaccia in Bari, pasticciotti in Lecce, and pizza at the little hole in the wall down by the train station in Foggia.
I miss the mountains in Sicily and Calabria.
I miss the dialects and look in someone's face when you say something like "Ciao beddu!"
I miss eating spicy calzones at the Romana Due in Crotone.
I miss the attractive girls on the bus.
I miss riding on trains whenever I have to go out of town.
I miss the salutations.
I miss speaking Italian every day.
I miss the open markets and squabbling with the merchants over the price of their merchandise.
I miss the strange hair styles and clothing.
I miss you, Italy.
Magari ci vedremo frappoco. Ciao, bella mia!
Well, let me tell you a little secret: Italy is more than food and architecture and art and gondola rides. From the persepctive of one who has lived there for a couple of years, I will tell you exactly why the thought of Italy is such a strong source of nostalgia.
I miss walking everywhere. Lots of people in Italy have automobiles, but they really aren't necessary unless you want to go to the seashore, and even then it's just as easy to take a bus or a train. When you are in town, everything is so close together that one does not have to drive to the grocery store, to the church, or the downtown/ centro area. There aren 't any hills most of the time either, so it's easy to walk for miles without becoming exhausted. However, what I love most about walking is the attitude of not being in such a hurry to get somewhere that you need to take the car. Of course, that's probably part of the reason why many Italians are chronically late to everything, but which is worse: running around so quickly that you never enjoy anything or never being on time? I would say the former.
I miss playing frisbee by the Mediterranean at 6:00 a.m.
I miss the cafes and the pizzerias and the gelato shops.
I miss drinking San Pellegrino Chinotto by the liter.
I miss talking to the weirdos and lunatics every day. The guy who said Jesus was a fornicator and the Apostle John was a homosexual. The hairy-chested bum who walked around Main Street with no shirt or shoes and slept on a bench. The fellow who quoted the Lord's Prayer to me in Latin for no reason at all. The priest who wouldn't stop putting his hand on my shoulder. The old men who asked me daily if I'd been to the local whorehouse. The codger who was missing teeth and couldn't keep his saliva inside his mouth. The girl who walked by me in the street every day and asked if I would give her my tie (I think she was after something else, but I can't be sure). I miss the crazy man who walked past my apartment and made faces at me. I miss Maxwell and Ayo and James and all the rest of the African immigrants on the bus. I miss them every one of them.
I miss buying focaccia in Bari, pasticciotti in Lecce, and pizza at the little hole in the wall down by the train station in Foggia.
I miss the mountains in Sicily and Calabria.
I miss the dialects and look in someone's face when you say something like "Ciao beddu!"
I miss eating spicy calzones at the Romana Due in Crotone.
I miss the attractive girls on the bus.
I miss riding on trains whenever I have to go out of town.
I miss the salutations.
I miss speaking Italian every day.
I miss the open markets and squabbling with the merchants over the price of their merchandise.
I miss the strange hair styles and clothing.
I miss you, Italy.
Magari ci vedremo frappoco. Ciao, bella mia!
Saturday, February 5, 2011
My Desk
This last year, when I made up my mind that I would not be attending graduate school until the fall of 2011, I realized that if I hoped to use my room as a work space, I would need to purchase a desk in order to have space enough for my computer and my papers and work and so on. I didn't feel the need to buy a desk chair and consequently I now sit on an uncomfortable old bar stool with wobbly legs that has less surface area on it than the black banana seat on my mom's now-retired one-speed, maroon-colored, chrome-fendered bicycle that was once in style approximately one hundred and sixty-seven years, five months, and twenty-three days ago this June 14 (give or take a day or twenty).
My desk is made of cherry wood and despite the fact that it was made in China, it manages to sustain all of the junk I unfailingly place upon it. I don't dust it often enough, which has just been reaffirmed to me as I seconds ago ran my finger across the interior of the cubby-holes where I keep all of my scratch and copy paper, be it lined, plain white, or eggshell, the latter of which I like to use for resumes. I blow away some of the dust particles, and they scamper.
But my desk bears more than paper and dust. In the upper left pigeon-hole, I see two outdated and somewhat wrinkled wallet-sized photos of my nephews which I hang onto despite the fact that they have survived at least two trips through the washing machine. Beneath them, I have an old pen (lacking in ink and certainly meriting retirement), which I have obviously chewed on once or twice during a moments of pensive concentration; a partial tube of Icy Hot (which I keep around in case my tempermental wrist decides to flare up); a yellow-and-red tube, with a rounded red cap, of original Carmex moisturizing lip balm, a small Christmas present from my ever practical mum; and a partial set of hardly used calligraphy pens which I won in a poetry contest in the fall of 2009 and hope to someday learn to use (If I don't, well, at least they'll never run out of ink as my other pen has). In front of me, I see a container of Right Guard Total Defense with an orange and gray exterior; a partial bottle of White-Out, whose cap is now permanently affixed to the container as I have carelessly allowed a large amount of the liquid to build and harden, little by litte, over a long period of time; and two first-class Liberty Bell stamps, left over from a packet of twenty.
I know what you're thinking now. You must be saying, I thought you said you bought your desk for work; it sounds as though you use it as a dump heap that the Grinch himself might frolic in.
But you would be wrong.
Okay, you're right, but only partially. My desk does indeed serve as a home for all sorts of rubbish. But that's not why I like it as much as I do, although that is certainly part of its charm. Also, I like it because it functions as a halfway house for all of my research and leisure reading material. You see, books need somewhere to stay while they aren't on the shelf. Oh, I know, I could put them back on the shelf when I'm not reading them. However, I find it annoying to have to go all the way to my shelves, one of which is barely an arm's length from my bar stool, to gather up all forty-seven volumes I happen to be pouring over at the same moment. So, instead of leading me into the valley of the shadow of irritation and temporary distress, my desk bears the burden for me by functioning as an extension of my library. You might call it an over-sized bookbag with four legs and no pockets. No monogrammed initials either.
To tell you the truth, at this very moment, my desk, my brave strong desk, is housing thirty-three separate volumes of classic literature and literary theory, not to mention a stack of research essays, all of which have effectively forced me to shift three Harry Potter books to an old chair in the corner for want of more surface area. By the way, this is the first time I have attempted to read the Harry Potter series and I have been so into them that I have read volumes 2-4 in the last thirty-hours. Pretty good, I would say, though I am certain there are those out there, certain unnamed speed readers, who have read them faster and with greater passion than I. However, to discuss such individuals, who are unknown to me and possibly to you is obviously outside the scope of this post because, after all, we were discussing my desk and not the Gryffindoor and/or Slytherin (no one really cares about Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw) adherents who have possibly learned to speak a dialect of Parseltongue and like to spend their time dreaming of flying among the clouds on hippogriffs or studying to become Animagi.
Ultimately though, I like my desk mostly because of its versatility and the amount of wear it takes. A desk, as I have found, is possibly the most versatile piece of furniture one can possess. It is bookshelf, wastebasket, trash compactor, breakfast table, lunch table, dinner table, work station, and time-teller (only because I keep my bell curve clock on it, which also needs dusting and whose battery is currently too weak to allow the seconds hand to ascend after the first half-minute has passed]). I have written two books, multiple essays, and innumerable poems at it. To use the words of Rat from Kenneth Grahame's The Wind and the Willows in mirrored application, it's my desk and I don't want any other. "Lord! the times we've had together."
Currently, I can tell that you are probably comparing me to that nut job in You've Got Mail, "the world's greatest living expert on Julius and Ethel Rosenberg," the guy who's is "so in love with his typewriter," but this judgment is unfair. I am not enamored by my desk; however, you must realize something: when you spend a lot of time with something, you tend to get attached to it and mindful of all of the things it does. But enough about inanimate objects; let's talk about people because people are more important than things. Perhaps some of us are not mindful enough of the people in our lives who do more for us than any others. These lovely folks simply carry on in their own way, doing the things they do because, well, it's what they do (kind of like house-elves). They do not ask for recognition because charity does not beg for reciprocation; however, that they deserve our thanks is beyond our pitiful power to deny.
My desk is made of cherry wood and despite the fact that it was made in China, it manages to sustain all of the junk I unfailingly place upon it. I don't dust it often enough, which has just been reaffirmed to me as I seconds ago ran my finger across the interior of the cubby-holes where I keep all of my scratch and copy paper, be it lined, plain white, or eggshell, the latter of which I like to use for resumes. I blow away some of the dust particles, and they scamper.
But my desk bears more than paper and dust. In the upper left pigeon-hole, I see two outdated and somewhat wrinkled wallet-sized photos of my nephews which I hang onto despite the fact that they have survived at least two trips through the washing machine. Beneath them, I have an old pen (lacking in ink and certainly meriting retirement), which I have obviously chewed on once or twice during a moments of pensive concentration; a partial tube of Icy Hot (which I keep around in case my tempermental wrist decides to flare up); a yellow-and-red tube, with a rounded red cap, of original Carmex moisturizing lip balm, a small Christmas present from my ever practical mum; and a partial set of hardly used calligraphy pens which I won in a poetry contest in the fall of 2009 and hope to someday learn to use (If I don't, well, at least they'll never run out of ink as my other pen has). In front of me, I see a container of Right Guard Total Defense with an orange and gray exterior; a partial bottle of White-Out, whose cap is now permanently affixed to the container as I have carelessly allowed a large amount of the liquid to build and harden, little by litte, over a long period of time; and two first-class Liberty Bell stamps, left over from a packet of twenty.
I know what you're thinking now. You must be saying, I thought you said you bought your desk for work; it sounds as though you use it as a dump heap that the Grinch himself might frolic in.
But you would be wrong.
Okay, you're right, but only partially. My desk does indeed serve as a home for all sorts of rubbish. But that's not why I like it as much as I do, although that is certainly part of its charm. Also, I like it because it functions as a halfway house for all of my research and leisure reading material. You see, books need somewhere to stay while they aren't on the shelf. Oh, I know, I could put them back on the shelf when I'm not reading them. However, I find it annoying to have to go all the way to my shelves, one of which is barely an arm's length from my bar stool, to gather up all forty-seven volumes I happen to be pouring over at the same moment. So, instead of leading me into the valley of the shadow of irritation and temporary distress, my desk bears the burden for me by functioning as an extension of my library. You might call it an over-sized bookbag with four legs and no pockets. No monogrammed initials either.
To tell you the truth, at this very moment, my desk, my brave strong desk, is housing thirty-three separate volumes of classic literature and literary theory, not to mention a stack of research essays, all of which have effectively forced me to shift three Harry Potter books to an old chair in the corner for want of more surface area. By the way, this is the first time I have attempted to read the Harry Potter series and I have been so into them that I have read volumes 2-4 in the last thirty-hours. Pretty good, I would say, though I am certain there are those out there, certain unnamed speed readers, who have read them faster and with greater passion than I. However, to discuss such individuals, who are unknown to me and possibly to you is obviously outside the scope of this post because, after all, we were discussing my desk and not the Gryffindoor and/or Slytherin (no one really cares about Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw) adherents who have possibly learned to speak a dialect of Parseltongue and like to spend their time dreaming of flying among the clouds on hippogriffs or studying to become Animagi.
Ultimately though, I like my desk mostly because of its versatility and the amount of wear it takes. A desk, as I have found, is possibly the most versatile piece of furniture one can possess. It is bookshelf, wastebasket, trash compactor, breakfast table, lunch table, dinner table, work station, and time-teller (only because I keep my bell curve clock on it, which also needs dusting and whose battery is currently too weak to allow the seconds hand to ascend after the first half-minute has passed]). I have written two books, multiple essays, and innumerable poems at it. To use the words of Rat from Kenneth Grahame's The Wind and the Willows in mirrored application, it's my desk and I don't want any other. "Lord! the times we've had together."
Currently, I can tell that you are probably comparing me to that nut job in You've Got Mail, "the world's greatest living expert on Julius and Ethel Rosenberg," the guy who's is "so in love with his typewriter," but this judgment is unfair. I am not enamored by my desk; however, you must realize something: when you spend a lot of time with something, you tend to get attached to it and mindful of all of the things it does. But enough about inanimate objects; let's talk about people because people are more important than things. Perhaps some of us are not mindful enough of the people in our lives who do more for us than any others. These lovely folks simply carry on in their own way, doing the things they do because, well, it's what they do (kind of like house-elves). They do not ask for recognition because charity does not beg for reciprocation; however, that they deserve our thanks is beyond our pitiful power to deny.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
List-en Up!
Alright, everyone. Today's post is very simple. These are things I want to do before I cash in my chips in a couple hundred years. You may have read my partial one which I posted a couple of weeks ago; this one is my complete one. Mr. President, I realize that you are an avid reader of my blog and yes, it's true. I would like to meet you. However, if you are voted out of office before I get the opportunity, I will want to meet the next one.
Also, readers, you will notice that my bucket list includes the item "Have 100 blog views in a single day." That one is entirely up to my readership. I guess I could track my own views and look at my own bblog 100 hundred times in a day, but I will not do that because that's cheating. I am leaving it in your hands, readers. It's all up to you whether that one comes true for me or not.
Bucket List
1. Ride a bike down the Great Wall of China .
2. Catch a marlin in the Caribbean .
3. Write a book which unexpectedly lands on the New York Times best-seller list.
4. Appear on a Food Network TV show. I'd make burgers wrapped in pancetta and smothered in gouda
5.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.
6. Attend a Baltimore Ravens football game.
7. Sit on a bridge overlooking the Seine , eating baguettes and Emmentaler Grand Cru.
8. Sing "London Bridge is Falling Down" on the London Bridge
9. Be somebody's wish.
10. Win a raffle
11. Have at least one bookshelf dedicated to all of the things I’ve published
12. Own and read every book that C.S. Lewis ever wrote
13. Learn Arabic
14. Learn how to build a computer from parts
15. Repel down the Malad Gorge
16. Go on ten fossil digs
17. Make an archeological find
18. Have a picnic on a pyramid
19. Write a song that gets on the radio
20. Climb a very tall mountain
21.Learn a type of martial arts
22. Invent something useful
23. Be in a movie
24. Attend the Super Bowl
25. Bench press 350 pounds
26. Make a giant Jack o’ lantern and leave it on someone’s lawn, aflame for all to see
27. Build my own canoe out of a tree I cut down myself
28. Learn how to paint (for real) with oil and canvas and acrylic and watercolors and other things
29. Go to the Nobel Prize convention in Sweden
30. Learn to ski without killing myself
31. Bury something cool then dig it up fifty years later (or allow someone else to dig it up)
32. Use a reference from Carlo Collodi’s Le Avventure di Pinocchio in my dissertation
33. Shoot a large animal and have its head mounted
34. Float down a river on a wooden raft like Huck and Jim
35. Have an exotic pet, or at least pet an exotic pet
36. Roll down the street in a tire (see To Kill a Mockingbird)
37. Meet the current President of the United States
38. Go to a General Conference session
39. Attend a Celtics game
40. Get to the Pro level on Wii Boxing
41. See an opera in the Teatro Massimo
42. Visit Pompeii
43. Visit Brindisi
44. Have a hot-air balloon ride
45. Eat shark
46. Own a telescope
47. Learn calligraphy and make an illuminated script on parchment
48. Have a Where the Wild Things Are birthday party and have a wild rumpus (and maybe send everyone home without supper)
49. Visit Mayan ruins
50. Spend a long time in Ireland
51. Read Will Durrant’s The Story of Civilization (all 11 vols.)
52. See Jerusalem and climb Mt.
53. Wear Utes shirt to a BYU-Utah football game, then rip it to shreds like the Incredible Hulk
54. Play Moonlight Sonata on the piano without a mistake
55. Build a cabin of clay and wattles (I don’t want to live in it more than a day though) like W.B. Yeats
56. Go up a hill to fetch a pail of water then roll down without breaking my crown
57. Pan for gold in the Yukon
58. Have a dog named Buck
59. Visit the Sistine chapel
60. Make a YouTube video that gets 1,000 views
61. Get 100 blog views in a day
62. Publish a children’s book
63. Catch a salmon in Alaska, roast over a fire, and eat it with dill and lemon juice (Not totally something that Bear Grylls would do, but I'm not Bear Grylls)
64. Visit the Sacred Grove
65. Go to a game show (not be on a game show. Martha!)
Anyway, this is my life, reversed and put in list format. I would also like to know if any of my readers have done these things. If so, feel free to tell me how it went. If they aren't everything they ought to be, I may replace them with something else. But probably not.
By the way, how's your bucket list coming along?
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Five People You'd Like to Meet in Heaven: The Final Episode
Act V
When I arrive back at the booth, I notice that St. Peter is back in his spot. However, he's arguing with someone at the desk. When I look closer, I realize it's Jimmy Mcmillan, the former gubernatorial candidate for the state of New York. From where I'm standing, it looks like it's getting fairly heated.
Jimmy: Now what kind of accommodations can I expect?
Peter: You get a mansion.
Jimmy: How much does it cost?
Peter: Actually, it doesn't cost anything.
Jimmy: I'm telling you that the rent is too d--- high!
Peter: Jimmy, you're not allowed to say that here, and it doesn't cost a...
Jimmy: Say what?
Peter: You can't say that here.
Jimmy: I can't say that?
Peter: No, you can't say d---...oh, shoot. Look what you made me do now, Jimmy. You made me break the rules. Thanks so much.
Jimmy: I still say the rent is too d--- high.
Peter: There isn't any rent. You just agree to abide by the rules of heaven. We don't use any money up here, so you don't pay anything.
Jimmy: But if I follow the rules, can I tell people I'm from the Rent Is Too D--- High Party?
Peter: Only if you use a euphemism.
Jimmy: Alright. Do I get breakfast, lunch, and dinner?
Peter: You do not need breakfast, lunch, and dinner in heaven.
Jimmy: How come?
Peter: Because you're dead.
Jimmy: I can't be dead. I never took my gloves off.
Peter: Trust me, Jimmy. You're dead.
Jimmy: Look, I am a karate expert. You cannot tell me that I am dead. I can tell you that you are dead. I am not dead. I demand a roof over my head, money in my pocket, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And you wanna know why?
Peter: I'm not going to say it, Jimmy.
Jimmy: Because the rent is too d--- high!
Peter: Jimmy, you say that one more time, and I'm going to send you down the laundry chute. Either you stand by the rules or you cannot come in here. Understood?
Jimmy: Can I keep my beard and sideburns?
Peter: Uh, yes, you may.
Jimmy: Fine. I'll do it. But if you try to jack up my rent, you better know that I won't pay it. You wanna know why?
Peter: I'm pretty sure I know why.
Jimmy: Because the rent is too...high!
Peter: You got lucky there, Jimmy. If you'd slipped, you would have been out of here.
Jimmy walks away, jingling to keys of his new house and muttering something about getting married to a shoe Peter wipes the sweat off of his forehead and looks at me.
Peter: Oh, wonderful. An easy one.
Me: You look like you've had a day of it.
Peter: You wouldn't believe it if I told you.
Me: Tell me, and we'll see if I believe you or not. I'll ask you three times if you want.
Peter: No, once is enough.
Me: So, what's up?
Peter: Well, it started when James Harrison tackled Roger Goodell and sat on his face. I had to go break that ruckus up.
Me: Does that sort of thing happen frequently?
Peter: Only to Roger. Sometimes it takes a while for disgruntled players to get over their grudges. It got so bad that we had to move him to a secure facility where former NFL players aren't allowed. His only problem is staying inside the fences. Today, he put one toe outside of the gate, and Harrison made him pay for it.
Me: I hope he's okay.
Peter: Well, no one gets hurt in heaven, so Roger's fine. Harrison just likes to pretend that he's breaking Rog in half. No real harm done.
Me: Well, glad to hear that.
Peter: Then, Beethoven showed up and wanted to know how to get somewhere. I tried to explain, but he kept saying "Huh?" "Huh?" Slightly frustrating.
Me: I can imagine.
Peter: Of course, he's not as frustrating as Bill O' Reilly, though. All that man does is sit around and call people pinheads. The nerve. It's like listening to a tasteless Mark Twain with no imagination.
Me: (nodding in agreement)
Peter: And then, of course, Moses received an important epistle from Paul and lost it. Started to tear his mansion apart trying to find. I showed up to help him look and told him to stop being a basket case.
Me: What did he say?
Peter: He took offense to that remark and said I sure was high and mighty for someone who's needed in denial. Don't know where he would get that idea. But it is kind of like the pot calling the kettle black. He's been in denial himself, you know. It's was his mother's fault. He was in denial because of her. At least, that's what Freud said.
Me: Did you find it eventually?
Peter: Find what?
Me: The epistle.
Peter: Oh, yes. Nothing stays lost here for long. We're all about finding things. Even if it takes forty years of wandering around and looking, things don't stay lost. Except Robin Williams, of course. He's always been lost; even when he was alive, he was lost. Most of us are glad of it too. You can only take so many of his bad impressions and jokes before you want to tell him, "Get lost!" At which point, he yells back, "TOO LATE!" and runs away to bother someone else.
Me: That's too bad.
Peter: Then I took a trip over to the counseling center to check on Ernest and Sylvia just before coming back to the gates, and I ran into Nostradamus.
Me: What did he say?
Peter: It's always the same thing with him. He has no self-confidence anymore. All he does is moan annd ask, "Why doesn't anyone believe me?"
Me: Hmm.
Peter: And finally, there was Jimmy, and you saw what happened with him.
Me: Sounds like you could use a break.
Peter: It's not really as bad as I make it sound. Besides, someone has to do the work. If I don't do my part, I probably don't belong here. But you, you probably want to see your final person, correct?
Me: Yes, sir. I do.
Peter: And I think, if I remember correctly, you wanted to speak with Elvis?
Me: Yes, sir.
Peter: And I explained that we have no idea which one...
Suddenly, James runs up the window, out of breath.
Peter: James, what is going on?
James: We've found him!
Peter: Who?
James: Elvis Presley!
Peter: But how did you...
James: We ran paternity tests. We found Elvis' real father and tested everyone up here. We've found him!
Peter turns to me.
Peter: Well, it looks like you can have your interview after all. Did you still want to talk to him?
Me: Actually, I changed my mind. I really just wanted to talk to you for a while.
Peter: (smiling) Well, that's nice.
Me: You've helped me a lot. You and Charlie both have helped me. Cleared up my perspective on what heaven's supposed to be, and what I'm supposed to do annd how I need to act.
Peter: I'm glad we could help. By the way, did you notice how different Charlie looks whhen he's not in black and white?
Me: I did. I told him so.
Peter: Well, I wish you all the best anyway. Don't be a stranger. Come see us once you get settled in. Maybe we can find some work for you up here.
Me: I'll keep that in mind.
Peter: Have a good afterlife.
Me: Thanks. You too.
When I arrive back at the booth, I notice that St. Peter is back in his spot. However, he's arguing with someone at the desk. When I look closer, I realize it's Jimmy Mcmillan, the former gubernatorial candidate for the state of New York. From where I'm standing, it looks like it's getting fairly heated.
Jimmy: Now what kind of accommodations can I expect?
Peter: You get a mansion.
Jimmy: How much does it cost?
Peter: Actually, it doesn't cost anything.
Jimmy: I'm telling you that the rent is too d--- high!
Peter: Jimmy, you're not allowed to say that here, and it doesn't cost a...
Jimmy: Say what?
Peter: You can't say that here.
Jimmy: I can't say that?
Peter: No, you can't say d---...oh, shoot. Look what you made me do now, Jimmy. You made me break the rules. Thanks so much.
Jimmy: I still say the rent is too d--- high.
Peter: There isn't any rent. You just agree to abide by the rules of heaven. We don't use any money up here, so you don't pay anything.
Jimmy: But if I follow the rules, can I tell people I'm from the Rent Is Too D--- High Party?
Peter: Only if you use a euphemism.
Jimmy: Alright. Do I get breakfast, lunch, and dinner?
Peter: You do not need breakfast, lunch, and dinner in heaven.
Jimmy: How come?
Peter: Because you're dead.
Jimmy: I can't be dead. I never took my gloves off.
Peter: Trust me, Jimmy. You're dead.
Jimmy: Look, I am a karate expert. You cannot tell me that I am dead. I can tell you that you are dead. I am not dead. I demand a roof over my head, money in my pocket, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And you wanna know why?
Peter: I'm not going to say it, Jimmy.
Jimmy: Because the rent is too d--- high!
Peter: Jimmy, you say that one more time, and I'm going to send you down the laundry chute. Either you stand by the rules or you cannot come in here. Understood?
Jimmy: Can I keep my beard and sideburns?
Peter: Uh, yes, you may.
Jimmy: Fine. I'll do it. But if you try to jack up my rent, you better know that I won't pay it. You wanna know why?
Peter: I'm pretty sure I know why.
Jimmy: Because the rent is too...high!
Peter: You got lucky there, Jimmy. If you'd slipped, you would have been out of here.
Jimmy walks away, jingling to keys of his new house and muttering something about getting married to a shoe Peter wipes the sweat off of his forehead and looks at me.
Peter: Oh, wonderful. An easy one.
Me: You look like you've had a day of it.
Peter: You wouldn't believe it if I told you.
Me: Tell me, and we'll see if I believe you or not. I'll ask you three times if you want.
Peter: No, once is enough.
Me: So, what's up?
Peter: Well, it started when James Harrison tackled Roger Goodell and sat on his face. I had to go break that ruckus up.
Me: Does that sort of thing happen frequently?
Peter: Only to Roger. Sometimes it takes a while for disgruntled players to get over their grudges. It got so bad that we had to move him to a secure facility where former NFL players aren't allowed. His only problem is staying inside the fences. Today, he put one toe outside of the gate, and Harrison made him pay for it.
Me: I hope he's okay.
Peter: Well, no one gets hurt in heaven, so Roger's fine. Harrison just likes to pretend that he's breaking Rog in half. No real harm done.
Me: Well, glad to hear that.
Peter: Then, Beethoven showed up and wanted to know how to get somewhere. I tried to explain, but he kept saying "Huh?" "Huh?" Slightly frustrating.
Me: I can imagine.
Peter: Of course, he's not as frustrating as Bill O' Reilly, though. All that man does is sit around and call people pinheads. The nerve. It's like listening to a tasteless Mark Twain with no imagination.
Me: (nodding in agreement)
Peter: And then, of course, Moses received an important epistle from Paul and lost it. Started to tear his mansion apart trying to find. I showed up to help him look and told him to stop being a basket case.
Me: What did he say?
Peter: He took offense to that remark and said I sure was high and mighty for someone who's needed in denial. Don't know where he would get that idea. But it is kind of like the pot calling the kettle black. He's been in denial himself, you know. It's was his mother's fault. He was in denial because of her. At least, that's what Freud said.
Me: Did you find it eventually?
Peter: Find what?
Me: The epistle.
Peter: Oh, yes. Nothing stays lost here for long. We're all about finding things. Even if it takes forty years of wandering around and looking, things don't stay lost. Except Robin Williams, of course. He's always been lost; even when he was alive, he was lost. Most of us are glad of it too. You can only take so many of his bad impressions and jokes before you want to tell him, "Get lost!" At which point, he yells back, "TOO LATE!" and runs away to bother someone else.
Me: That's too bad.
Peter: Then I took a trip over to the counseling center to check on Ernest and Sylvia just before coming back to the gates, and I ran into Nostradamus.
Me: What did he say?
Peter: It's always the same thing with him. He has no self-confidence anymore. All he does is moan annd ask, "Why doesn't anyone believe me?"
Me: Hmm.
Peter: And finally, there was Jimmy, and you saw what happened with him.
Me: Sounds like you could use a break.
Peter: It's not really as bad as I make it sound. Besides, someone has to do the work. If I don't do my part, I probably don't belong here. But you, you probably want to see your final person, correct?
Me: Yes, sir. I do.
Peter: And I think, if I remember correctly, you wanted to speak with Elvis?
Me: Yes, sir.
Peter: And I explained that we have no idea which one...
Suddenly, James runs up the window, out of breath.
Peter: James, what is going on?
James: We've found him!
Peter: Who?
James: Elvis Presley!
Peter: But how did you...
James: We ran paternity tests. We found Elvis' real father and tested everyone up here. We've found him!
Peter turns to me.
Peter: Well, it looks like you can have your interview after all. Did you still want to talk to him?
Me: Actually, I changed my mind. I really just wanted to talk to you for a while.
Peter: (smiling) Well, that's nice.
Me: You've helped me a lot. You and Charlie both have helped me. Cleared up my perspective on what heaven's supposed to be, and what I'm supposed to do annd how I need to act.
Peter: I'm glad we could help. By the way, did you notice how different Charlie looks whhen he's not in black and white?
Me: I did. I told him so.
Peter: Well, I wish you all the best anyway. Don't be a stranger. Come see us once you get settled in. Maybe we can find some work for you up here.
Me: I'll keep that in mind.
Peter: Have a good afterlife.
Me: Thanks. You too.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Five People You'd Like to Meet in Heaven: Episode 4
Act IV
Instead of leaving the room right away to alert the front desk that they can send in the next interviewee, I sit in my chair and wonder what the h--- just happened.
Unknown voice: You can't think that!
Startled, I jump to my feet and look around. No one. Jehoshaphat, I think. That scared the h--- out of me.
Unknown voice: You can't think that!
D--- it, where is that voice coming from?
Unknown voice: You can't think that!
I race out of the room. Holy Moses, Big Brother's here too. I finally arrive at the front booth. Charlie's still there. With a confused look, he says, "Um, why have you been running? You don't need to run here; this is heaven after all."
Me: I keep...hearing...a voice. I think something...or someone is...watching me. Reading...my thoughts. Scared...me."
Charlie: Oh, don't be scared about that. It's just your conscience.
Me: My...conscience? It's never been...it's never been that vocal before.
Charlie: Well, in heaven everyone's conscience is much louder. It's standard procedure to amplify your shoulder angel a little when you come here. It's also easier to hear because your shoulder devil isn't so loud.
Me: Is there anyway to decrease to the volume?
Charlie: (nods) Mm-hmm.
Me: How?
Charlie: You really want to know? I'll tell you the secret. (he leans close to my face and yells) STOP SAYING BAD WORDS! (then, smiling) So, how did your visit with The Rock go?
Me: The Rock didn't let me talk.
Charlie: I expected that. The Rock doesn't let anyone talk. The Big Guy is the only one who can actually say anything with The Rock around.
Me: I wish you'd told me.
Charlie: About what?
Me: That my interview with The Rock would be a waste of time.
Charlie: Look, if you haven't learned by now that making choices--and sometimes bad ones--is the only way to learn, then maybe you're in the wrong place. There's a spot for people who don't want to make choices and learn from consequences, and it's not heaven.
Me: Wait a minute. Learning? That was before, right? That was when I was alive. I'm done with that, right?
Charlie: You think so? Then let me teach you something right now: life was all preparation for heaven. You don't stop learning now just because you're dead.
Me: Oh.
Charlie: Now do you understand?
Me: I guess so.
Charlie: Good. Now, (he scans the list) who do you need to see now? Hmm. Okay, you want to see Yogi Berra? (chuckling) I'll get him for you. He'll need someone to make sure he makes it alright. He tends to get lost.
Me: In heaven? You can get lost in heaven?
Charlie: I don't, and most other people don't. But Yogi, well, Yogi's special. You'll never meet a kinder man, but he's almost completely devoid of common sense.
Me: Well, I guess I expected that.
Charlie: (nods) You want to know something? Over on Seraphim Boulevard, we put a fork in the road. It's the same idea I was telling you about just now. If the road turns into two, then people can choose which one they want to travel down and they'll learn from it. Robert Frost was actually the architect and foreman for that job.
Me: So what you're saying is, if all roads lead to Rome, no one could ever get to decide if they want to go to Moscow.
Charlie: Exactly.
Me: I think I get it.
Charlie: Generally people are pretty good about choosing to walk down one street or the other. But Yogi, (chuckling) he takes the fork. Every time. Hops over the barrier and everything. Just wanders around until someone comes to find him.
Me: That's interesting, and yet, I am not surprised.
Charlie: Well, I'll go get him for you. I guarantee you'll have a good time with Yogi.
Twenty-two hundred years go by. Finally, Yogi Berra walks in, sweating.
Me: Yogi, why are you sweating? Heaven's air-conditioned; you shouldn't be sweating.
Yogi: It's not the heat, kid; it's the humility.
Me: Oh, gotcha.
Yogi: By the way, I can't stay and talk long. It gets late early in heaven.
Me: Well, I'll be quick.
Yogi: Say, do I know you? I mean, if I hadn't seen you I probably would never have recognized you.
Me: No, you don't know me.
Yogi: Are you sure? 'Cuz it felt like I was having deja-vu all over again. Were you at my funeral?
Me: Nope.
Yogi: That's probably why I didn't come to yours then. Oh, well. I make wrong mistakes all the time; guess this is just another one.
Me: It's alright, Yogi. Everyone looks like someone.
Yogi: Oh well, I'm not perfect after all, and if I were perfect, I wouldn't be.
Me: I'm not sure what that means.
Yogi: Neither do I. But you know something? You're the first person who ever told me that. Everyone else just sort of laughs and nods like they understand, even though I know they don't. I don't even understand ninety percent of the things I say, and the other half, well, I'm pretty sure I didn't say other half of the things I said.
Me: I'm honored.
Yogi: You should be. Now, do you have some questions for me?
Me: Just one.
Yogi: Go ahead and ask then. But I'll warn you: if you ask me anything I don't know, I'm not going to answer.
Me: Okay. My question is, What do you think of the Yankees now?
Yogi: You know, I wish I had an answer for that because I'm tired of answering that question.
Me: So you don't know?
Yogi: I think they've got deep depth.
Me: Anything else?
Yogi: Look, all I'm saying is, in baseball, you don't know nothing. Don't let anyone tell you different. Half the lies you hear aren't true.
Me: I'm lost.
Yogi: Well, you've got to be careful if you don't where you're going because you might not get there.
Me: So, in theory...
Yogi: There ain't no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is.
Me: So, you're just talking about practice? You and Allen Iverson must have a lot to talk about, I'm thinking.
Yogi: Thinking? How can you think and talk at the same time?
Me: (looking at my wrist, even though watch isn't there anymore) Yogi, I hate to rush you out but you've got to go home, and I need to chat with one more person before they give me the keys to my mansion.
Yogi: Already? But if he hadn't been talking so much, we might have had a conversation.
Me: Well, this is the way it's got to be.
Yogi: Can't I just stay in here for a while? Just until Will Ferrell stops hanging around outside? Every time he sees me, he starts talking like Harry Carey. It's embarassing. I try to get him to stop, but he's one of those people, if they don't already know, you can't tell them.
Me: No, Yogi, I think it would be better if you just went back.
Yogi: Please can I stay?
Me: No, this interview is over.
Yogi: But it ain't over till it's over.
Me: Trust me, Yogi. It's over.
Charlie walks in, takes Yogi by the arm, and leads him out of the room. Just before the door closes, I hear Yogi say, "Charlie, the future just ain't what it used to be."
Instead of leaving the room right away to alert the front desk that they can send in the next interviewee, I sit in my chair and wonder what the h--- just happened.
Unknown voice: You can't think that!
Startled, I jump to my feet and look around. No one. Jehoshaphat, I think. That scared the h--- out of me.
Unknown voice: You can't think that!
D--- it, where is that voice coming from?
Unknown voice: You can't think that!
I race out of the room. Holy Moses, Big Brother's here too. I finally arrive at the front booth. Charlie's still there. With a confused look, he says, "Um, why have you been running? You don't need to run here; this is heaven after all."
Me: I keep...hearing...a voice. I think something...or someone is...watching me. Reading...my thoughts. Scared...me."
Charlie: Oh, don't be scared about that. It's just your conscience.
Me: My...conscience? It's never been...it's never been that vocal before.
Charlie: Well, in heaven everyone's conscience is much louder. It's standard procedure to amplify your shoulder angel a little when you come here. It's also easier to hear because your shoulder devil isn't so loud.
Me: Is there anyway to decrease to the volume?
Charlie: (nods) Mm-hmm.
Me: How?
Charlie: You really want to know? I'll tell you the secret. (he leans close to my face and yells) STOP SAYING BAD WORDS! (then, smiling) So, how did your visit with The Rock go?
Me: The Rock didn't let me talk.
Charlie: I expected that. The Rock doesn't let anyone talk. The Big Guy is the only one who can actually say anything with The Rock around.
Me: I wish you'd told me.
Charlie: About what?
Me: That my interview with The Rock would be a waste of time.
Charlie: Look, if you haven't learned by now that making choices--and sometimes bad ones--is the only way to learn, then maybe you're in the wrong place. There's a spot for people who don't want to make choices and learn from consequences, and it's not heaven.
Me: Wait a minute. Learning? That was before, right? That was when I was alive. I'm done with that, right?
Charlie: You think so? Then let me teach you something right now: life was all preparation for heaven. You don't stop learning now just because you're dead.
Me: Oh.
Charlie: Now do you understand?
Me: I guess so.
Charlie: Good. Now, (he scans the list) who do you need to see now? Hmm. Okay, you want to see Yogi Berra? (chuckling) I'll get him for you. He'll need someone to make sure he makes it alright. He tends to get lost.
Me: In heaven? You can get lost in heaven?
Charlie: I don't, and most other people don't. But Yogi, well, Yogi's special. You'll never meet a kinder man, but he's almost completely devoid of common sense.
Me: Well, I guess I expected that.
Charlie: (nods) You want to know something? Over on Seraphim Boulevard, we put a fork in the road. It's the same idea I was telling you about just now. If the road turns into two, then people can choose which one they want to travel down and they'll learn from it. Robert Frost was actually the architect and foreman for that job.
Me: So what you're saying is, if all roads lead to Rome, no one could ever get to decide if they want to go to Moscow.
Charlie: Exactly.
Me: I think I get it.
Charlie: Generally people are pretty good about choosing to walk down one street or the other. But Yogi, (chuckling) he takes the fork. Every time. Hops over the barrier and everything. Just wanders around until someone comes to find him.
Me: That's interesting, and yet, I am not surprised.
Charlie: Well, I'll go get him for you. I guarantee you'll have a good time with Yogi.
Twenty-two hundred years go by. Finally, Yogi Berra walks in, sweating.
Me: Yogi, why are you sweating? Heaven's air-conditioned; you shouldn't be sweating.
Yogi: It's not the heat, kid; it's the humility.
Me: Oh, gotcha.
Yogi: By the way, I can't stay and talk long. It gets late early in heaven.
Me: Well, I'll be quick.
Yogi: Say, do I know you? I mean, if I hadn't seen you I probably would never have recognized you.
Me: No, you don't know me.
Yogi: Are you sure? 'Cuz it felt like I was having deja-vu all over again. Were you at my funeral?
Me: Nope.
Yogi: That's probably why I didn't come to yours then. Oh, well. I make wrong mistakes all the time; guess this is just another one.
Me: It's alright, Yogi. Everyone looks like someone.
Yogi: Oh well, I'm not perfect after all, and if I were perfect, I wouldn't be.
Me: I'm not sure what that means.
Yogi: Neither do I. But you know something? You're the first person who ever told me that. Everyone else just sort of laughs and nods like they understand, even though I know they don't. I don't even understand ninety percent of the things I say, and the other half, well, I'm pretty sure I didn't say other half of the things I said.
Me: I'm honored.
Yogi: You should be. Now, do you have some questions for me?
Me: Just one.
Yogi: Go ahead and ask then. But I'll warn you: if you ask me anything I don't know, I'm not going to answer.
Me: Okay. My question is, What do you think of the Yankees now?
Yogi: You know, I wish I had an answer for that because I'm tired of answering that question.
Me: So you don't know?
Yogi: I think they've got deep depth.
Me: Anything else?
Yogi: Look, all I'm saying is, in baseball, you don't know nothing. Don't let anyone tell you different. Half the lies you hear aren't true.
Me: I'm lost.
Yogi: Well, you've got to be careful if you don't where you're going because you might not get there.
Me: So, in theory...
Yogi: There ain't no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is.
Me: So, you're just talking about practice? You and Allen Iverson must have a lot to talk about, I'm thinking.
Yogi: Thinking? How can you think and talk at the same time?
Me: (looking at my wrist, even though watch isn't there anymore) Yogi, I hate to rush you out but you've got to go home, and I need to chat with one more person before they give me the keys to my mansion.
Yogi: Already? But if he hadn't been talking so much, we might have had a conversation.
Me: Well, this is the way it's got to be.
Yogi: Can't I just stay in here for a while? Just until Will Ferrell stops hanging around outside? Every time he sees me, he starts talking like Harry Carey. It's embarassing. I try to get him to stop, but he's one of those people, if they don't already know, you can't tell them.
Me: No, Yogi, I think it would be better if you just went back.
Yogi: Please can I stay?
Me: No, this interview is over.
Yogi: But it ain't over till it's over.
Me: Trust me, Yogi. It's over.
Charlie walks in, takes Yogi by the arm, and leads him out of the room. Just before the door closes, I hear Yogi say, "Charlie, the future just ain't what it used to be."
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