Nakedmanatee's Blog o' Mirth.

Research Video

2008-08-22T14:07:00.001-07:00

Please watch this video. It's about research. It's called Research Minutes.

Check out the footage

2007-01-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

The actual footage

This blog beat me to it... Check it out!

2007-01-02T07:19:00.000-08:00

2007-01-02T07:15:00.000-08:00

Can You Believe, Baby???

2007-01-02T07:13:00.000-08:00

43-42

2007-01-01T22:02:00.000-08:00

We came. We saw. WE KICKED THEIR ASS!!!!

Oklahoma goes down... to Boise State!

GO BRONCOS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Story on Yahoo News

My Clit is Throbbing: A Tale of Christmas

2006-12-31T22:38:00.000-08:00

I work the night shift at a hotel. Many of you know this, but perhaps some of you don't. People who have an opinion about the odd hours I keep invariably have a negative opinion. "11-7," I say, watching the muscles in their face involuntarily wince. "I couldn't do that," is the most common response. I've decided that this is the fundamental division between me and the rest of the world. As an English major, I'm fond of metaphors, but here's something that I could take quite literally...the difference between me and the rest of the world was day and night. I go back and forth on this. Does working at night give me a release from the daytime obligations of relating to people? Does it encourage my not-so-latent misanthropic tendencies? I wonder.

Working at night isn't a complete isolation from humanity, as much as I wish it was. If anything, it strips away the mundane and leaves me with those who, to put it kindly, do not color within the lines. I can say this, I can make this dubious generalization because I consider myself one of them. Sometimes when I am feeling grandiose, I like to pretend I am their leader. But deep down inside, I know better. We're stragglers; we're lost. We can't be led.

Every night when I drive to work I wonder what is going to happen. What I really mean is: What is going to happen that will tear me away from my homework or my books or the movies I watch in the meeting room at 3a.m.? Occasionally, a guest will find me watching some pretentious French film. "Uh, excuse me, I'd like to check out," he'll mumble. "At three in the morning?" I think, irritated, fumbling for the pause button. I hate having the flow of Robert Bresson movies interrupted. I think it's disrespectful to Robert Bresson and if we, as a society, cannot respect our artists, what do we have left? Unfortunately, my early-morning check-out was not a fan of "L'Argent."

Last week, December 23rd, to get specific, I had brought with me a handful of Christmas presents to wrap. Having worked here (and again, I use work in the loosest sense) for two years, I had come to appreciate the spacious counters in the dining room area as excellent surfaces for wrapping presents. I flipped on the plasma screen, finding an airing of "Scrooged." Pleased that I had found the appropriate festive white noise for wrapping presents, I spread out my wrapping tools: scissors, tape, decorative papers and tags. I fixed a cup of hot chocolate and began to eye the gifts' various sizes, trying to determine just how much paper would be needed. I am notoriously bad at this. I haven't used a whole role of wrapping paper to wrap a bottle of cologne, but I've come damn close. After deciding that Hello Kitty paper was borderline appropriate for some adults, the inevitable happened: the phone rang. Christ, I'm trying to wrap Christmas presents here!

I picked up the phone and said my spiel: "Thank you for calling the Comfort Suites. This is David, how may I help you?"

The voice that answered was clear, sharp, acidic, and quite loud. "I HATE YOUR FUCKING FACE!" she said.

Now I've recieved all manner of calls, both of the serious and the prank variety. I've dealt with the assholes demanding to speak to the owner so they can complain about the lack of Western art in the hotel (no joke). I've also dealt with the drunken teenage boys calling me up to posit that all-important query: "Duuuude. You got some weed?" I feel like I've handled both with grace, humor, and aplomb. But I wasn't quite sure how to react when this girl (and she sounded teenager-ish) called me up and yelled this strange revelation.

So I laughed. "WH-hhaat?" I said in disbelief. She confirmed her feelings. "I HATE YOUR FUCKING FACE!" I quickly put the caller into the category of crank. Sarcasm always seemed like an appropriate defense. "Aww, really?" I said, making my voice seem disappointed. "That's so mean," I said with a overly fake whimper.

"Don't you hate my fucking face?" she said, her voice now registering in normal tones. It was almost awkward, as if she were asking me directions to somebody's house. I switched gears from sarcasm to blunt honesty. "Well, I try not to hate anybody," I said amiably. The phone was silent for a few seconds. "What are you wearing?" she purred.

I should note: I like prank phone calls, usually. I see them as a challenge. Very rarely do I feel like somebody has got the better of me on a prank phone call. When faced with one, I do not shrink away. I fully engage the prankster. The whole idea of a prank phone call is to embarrass or fool the one on the recieving end. A typical prankster lives for that moment when they fluster the hapless victim enough so they hang up, leaving them feeling angry and helpless. Knowing this, I have never hung up on one. I will keep it going. It is a war. A war in which I will annoy or pester or bore the other person into hanging up. I know. I shouldn't be so infantile. But I have to admit. It's kinda fun.

Despite my prank phone call experiences, I had never had anybody male or female ask me what I was wearing. I started laughing in disbelief. "What do you think I'm wearing?" I shot back. "I work at a hotel." Not missing a beat, she continued. "I hope you're wearing black slacks, a blue dress shirt and a tie." I stopped to think...well, that is the Comfort Suites uniform. Except I never adhere to dress code standards. Usually I wear khakis or sometimes black jeans. And I never, ever, wear a tie if I can get away with it. "I can see you," she whispered dramatically. I laughed again. "Really." I fingered my collar. I'm not wearing a tie, I thought.

"I'm really turned on right now," she said with a little moan in her voice. But she said it rapidly, nervously, almost. She might have been taking a dare from her drunk friends, and she was up for it, but she sounded rather unconvincing. I decided to play it straight. I had no intention of engaging her with more sex talk. "Why?" I said flatly. "I have no idea what you are talking about," I added with a laugh.

"My clit is throbbing for you," she said in a breathy sort of voice. I had to give her points not only for the sense of fake urgency that she was conveying, but that she was comfortable enough with her body to discuss whatever sensations she was feeling in her clit. Major clit bonus points. In fact, I suspect her tactic really wasn't different from any other prank phone caller. Embarrasment. Most people don't like to talk in erotic terms and certainly not with strangers. This girl was trying to embarrass me in a way, thinking I would get flustered and hang up. Or that I would actually be hard up enough to get turned on just by the word "clit." Well, she may have known the official uniform of the Comfort Suites employee, but she didn't know much about *me*. If she did, she'd know that I walk willingly into embarrasments. I leap into potential humiliation. I eat the stuff up with a spoon and ask for seconds. Thirds, even. At some point I decided that life was a series of humiliations and that the best defense was a good offense. To this end, I really am shameless. "What's a clit?" I asked, nonplussed. "I've heard *of them*," I explained, bemused by the surreality of the conversation.

Perhaps she mistook my unassuming tone as the manner of somebody who hasn't had any sexual experience. Who was not used to hearing the word "clit." Well, to be fair, it was a fairly safe assumption to make as I am generally socially polite about such things and do not engage in everyday conversations concerning such matters. Still, I'm not a monk cloistered away in some monastery. Things happen to me. To wit, it was only about a year ago I met up with a co-worker outside of work. To protect her identity, I shall call her Sarah, in honor of my favorite NPR contributor, Sarah Vowell. I was just leaving my Biology class (appropriately enough) and I heard her voice call me. "David!" I turned and there she was, with friends, sitting on the grass in front of the main doors, sunning herself. She motioned for me to come over. "Hey, Sarah," I said. "Do you want to see something?" she asked. "Sure," I said, my eyes going down to her bookbag. I anticipated a book or an essay, perhaps. But no. She lifted her shirt, Girls Gone Wild style, and revealed her newly pierced nipples. I blinked rapidly. "I got them pierced," she informed me. "You did," I said dumbly, nodding my head. "Looks painful," I managed as she lowered her shirt back down. I was caught off guard, it was true, but I think I covered it pretty well. That was shocking. The phone call prankster was going to have to work harder than that.

"I want you in me," she said, more determinedly. "In you? What are you talking about? Where?" I asked. "In my pussy," she responded. At this point, I switched gears, still trying to figure out who this girl was. Why was she harrasing me in such an unusual way? And more importantly, why wasn't she hanging up? I had tried to make it as unfun as possible for her. I tried to put on an air of concern. "Don't you have a boyfriend you should be saying these things to?" I asked, not trying to be sarcastic or witty, but to geniunely engage her, honestly. "Or a girlfriend?" I asked. "Yeah, I have a girlfriend," she moaned. "We want you to join us." I snorted. So much for genuine interaction. So far everything that she was saying was a bad porn cliche--a commercial for bad porn. Oy.

"Are you hard?" she asked.
"Let me check," I responded. "No, not yet."
"I'm so wet right now."
"Did you just come out of the shower?"
"No, my pussy is wet. I want you so bad."

Then the other line rang. I laughed and said "Okay then. I'm going to put you on hold." And I did. I let her sit on hold for a few minutes before the call dropped off. It was completly understandable. Our hold music is designed to wear down the most determined customer trying to get through. My opinion is, if you make it through the automated music and ads for a minumum of five minutes, you've earned the right to make a reservation. Anything less and you don't really deserve to stay here.

I wondered if she would call back. I realized I didn't ask her many questions. Like, what are *you* wearing? What's your name? When your clit is aroused do you ever think to yourself: "Wow, my clit is...well, I guess it's throbbing. Yes, throbbing is the best way to describe it. Beating isn't really the word. Thumping? No, throbbing."

Many hours later, I think I figured out who it was. I narrowed it down to a couple of ex-Comfort Suites employees that I think I may have pissed off. Let's say their names are Zuzu and Betty. They were 19-20ish, I believe, and would often show up in the middle of the night during my shift, bringing their friends in tow, all alcohol-saturated, cackling in the way that only smashed 19 year old girls can cackle. They were strangely aware of their nascent sexuality, but not old enough to truly articulate beyond phrases that they may have heard coming from a television. They loved to have their pool parties. This, of course, was at distinct odds with my nightly French film festival and I told them that they could not come to the hotel at night drunk. I made up a reason, like say, the boss would disaprove of such behavior. In reality, I didn't care if she fucked a donkey in her spare time. I just didn't want to be a witness to it. They were pissed, but said nothing. They left and I never saw them on my shift again.

Looking back, I felt bad, in a way. Maybe I was too hard on them. After all, they were just kids. The first time I met Zuzu, she was very nice to me. She was an attractive girl, but what struck me the most was, despite the fact that her body was sexually developed, her demeanor was playful and adolescent. I didn't want to have sex with her. I wanted to be a big brother. While she talked to me, she doodled on a pad--hearts, flowers, smiley faces. Yep, that was her. That was Zuzu. She was the one that had called me, going on about her clit. I felt oddly protective of her when I figured it out. I wished she would call me back. I could tell her that I never meant to embarrass her by lecturing her and Betty. I could ask her if she sat around thinking about how much she fucking hated my face.

She never did call back. I like to think that she worked out any animosity towards me...for her own sake. So, Zuzu, you're not reading this, I'm sure, but I wish you a Merry Christmas nonetheless. I hope the next time your clit is throbbing, you're not thinking of me.

Rebecca

2006-12-17T22:42:00.000-08:00

I've made it through my penultimate semester as an undergrad and damn does it feel good. It was an intense semester and it's so nice to finally catch my breath. Which means I have a short window of actually getting to choose what I read and watch! I've already wolfed down Tales of the City (soooo good & I have to fit the next one in soon) by Armistead Maupin. It's wonderful escapist material and the characters are so endearing, you can't help but make friends with them all. It didn't take me too long to wish I had my own flat at 28 Barbary Lane. But right now I'm taking a detour with "The Shadow of the Wind" (thanks, Amy!) by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. I'm about 75 pages in and it's got a great Gabriel Garcia Marquez feel to it. Plus, at it's heart, it is about a love affair with books. So it hits me where I live.

As far as movies go, I've got a stack of must-sees. Tonight I'm going to watch Jean-Luc Godard's "Masculin feminin," but a couple nights back I watched Alfred Hitchcock's "Rebecca." Here's my lil' mini-review...

I can't really talk about "Rebecca" without mentioning the now-classic opening line "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." The opening 1st person narration (by Joan Fontaine, looking more luscious than Scarlett Johannasen could ever hope for) is remarkable for a film of this type. Hitchcock crafted a superb Gothic romantic thriller that drew equally from the film noir/femme fatale elements, which generally are marked by a male 1st person narrative. To deviate from that is, most likely, no more than an adherence to the structure of the novel that it's based on, but regardless, the mechanics of the film's narrative is no unimportant thing. This is a story about women, from a woman's point of view, and the empathy engendered by this opening is crucial to the film's success. Of course, if you're going to put a director on the psycho-analytical couch, you'd be in good company to start with Hitchcock. The man is notorious (ha!) for his misogynistic subtext. Now you can make the arguement that everything torturous that our heroine endures is sharply felt because of a concious (or subconcious)desire on the part of Hitchcock to put the screws to her. It's kind of an interesting film exercise to pick the movie apart that way. It doesn't really matter though, as the statements about our heroine's place in a patriarchal society are as valid as they are brutal. In short, Hitchcock didn't invent the social structure, he's just pointing out how it operates.

Joan Fontaine's character is never given a name except for when she is married to Maxim de Winter. Then she is known as Mrs. de Winter. The *second* Mrs. de Winter, actually, as she has to contend with the ghost of Maxim's first wife, Rebecca, whose spirit affects every aspect of their palatial estate, Manderlay. In the novel (and in the credits) the character is simply called "I," which is strangely appropriate somehow. You could very easily do a feminist reading of the movie as she is essentially "NO-Name" until she becomes Mrs. de Winter. I'm just going to refer to her as "Joan." ;)

Joan is a quiet, meek sort; occupying that space between mousy and demure. She is working as a companion/servant for an older, more brash woman, who verbally browbeats her. Maxim spots her and the contrast between the women is striking. The older woman is socially duplicitous, all smiles and charm, but like a viper to Joan when no one else is around. Joan defers to everyone and shyly averts her eyes when Maxim speaks to her. But Joan is who she is. Her inner weakness and humility is established as a positive trait when contrasted with the elder woman's rude and devious nature. Maxim, of course, spots perfect wife material.

In the traditional film noir/femme fatale narrative, there is often a "woman of virture" in contrast to the femme fatale. Now Joan's elder companion is too old to be considered a femme fatale or rival for Maxim's affections, which leaves the movie in interesting territory as we slowly learn more about Maxim's first wife, Rebecca. In this movie, the dead woman is the femme fatale that Joan must compete with. The crux of the movie is this: can Joan's redeemer character work her inate goodness on Maxim?

Maxim is the typical mix of Lord Byron/Heathcliff tortured Romantic leading men figures. He is played with resolve and flint by Laurence Olivier, which is appropriate as Olivier had done this sort of thing before, playing Heathcliff in "Wuthering Heights." He's not a kind paramour to Joan, instead skirting between bad boy and father figure. I'm not sure if this is what women want, but there's no denying that all women uniformally find strength and confidence appealing and Maxim has it in spades. And Joan's easily malleable character is irresistable to such a man. In fact, besides her obvious beauty, it may be the one characteristic that truly sells Maxim on her. Throughout the film, he asserts his dominant masculinity, often comparing her to a child. He doesn't do this as an insult, but as an endearment. His marriage proposal is in the classic Clark Gable mode: "Marry me, you little fool!" (Maybe I'll use that line someday.) ;) Maxim even forbids her to ever be "36" suggesting that her babyish qualities are what Maxim truly loves.

The movie is perfectly constructed and shot and Manderlay looks gorgeous. The acting is stellar throughout, especially Judith Anderson as the creepy Mrs. Danvers. It's not Hitchcock's best (that would be Vertigo), but it's right up there. And even if you're not into the all the sociological gender subtext hoo-hah, it's a damn good thriller. Perfect for a rainy Friday night.

This is really hot

2006-12-13T07:17:00.000-08:00

hornymanatee.com

Yeahbutwha?

2006-12-08T04:36:00.000-08:00

If you're looking at the cover of today's USA Today (the COVER, mind you!)and you don't live in Idaho, "yeahbutwha?" might just be your reaction. But yes, that's Boise State University's Ian Johnson laughing triumphantly, presumably at our 12-0 season. Or maybe it's because he's the nation's second-leading rusher (147 yards a game.) And oh yeah, the guy crochets in his spare time. The BSU Broncos are near and dear to Boiseans' hearts. And BSU students have particularly stuck with them through thick and thin. I remember the dark years of the early 90's quite well, especially the rather humiliating defeats against our in-state rivals, the Idaho Vandals. I can let any game go, but when it comes to our yearly match-up, I turn into a frickin' caveman. But due to our ascendancy and the Vandals descent, they're not even on our radar anymore. The stars have aligned and BSU has made it into a bowl game. January 1st we'll be playing the Oklahoma Sooners in the Fiesta Bowl. Many people will be writing BSU off immediately. The Sooners are one of the greatest football programs in the nation...blah, blah, blah. Yeah, we're the underdog, and quite frankly that's our greatest strength. So go ahead. Underestimate us. I can't wait.

Random Acts of Christmas

2006-12-05T12:58:00.000-08:00

This is ho-ho-holarious. I'm sure many of you have read it before, but here is a link to James Thurber's Christmas story, "A Visit from Saint Nicholas (In the Ernest Hemingway Manner." It's written in the style of Hemingway and it's DEAD ON.

Thurber story

Enjoy!

God Only Knows What I'd Be Without You

2006-11-11T03:10:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is coming. Yes, yes it is. Which means that in the blogosphere everybody is going to get down wit the funky lists of things they are grateful for. Well, shee-it, I feel grateful NOW, so I’m going to beat the mad rush.

I am grateful & abundant. I am thankful for:

Love (the energy that fuels me)

Pain (that constant teacher, pushing me forward)

Peach Snapple (Georgia in a bottle.)

Curiosity (It hasn’t killed me yet.)

Family (Cause it’s fun to see what I’ve done with the same DNA.)

Friends & Lovers (I’m grateful for the time you’ve spent with me on the journey.)

My children (for teaching me how to be a parent and reminding me that I was once a kid too.)

Bloggy friends (Who remind me that friendship can overlap time zones.)

My bloggy enemies (For plotting against me, and therefore giving me a story arc.)

Emma Thompson (I wish she was narrating my life.)

Music (Because notes are words that can only be named by the heart.)

Bad television (Makes it easier to do homework.)

Really embarrassing situations (Cause later, after the humiliation dies down, you’ll not only be a hero for surviving it, you’ll have a great story to tell.)

Travel (Because to see the world is to realize how similar we all are.)

Gravity (Keeps us from falling onto the moon.)

The ground (Keeps us from sinking into the molten lava.)

Crayons (If world leaders took 30 minutes to color in coloring books each day, I have a feeling the world would be a much better place.)

Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (It’s the cheesiest.)

Harrison Ford (For being my generation’s John Wayne.)

Emotional scars (Because I earned them & they are mine.)

Impromptu Haiku (the best kind)

Ben and Jerry's (Because ice cream tastes better when the flavors have cool names.)

Curb Your Enthusiasm (It’s like a martini with a prozac chaser.)

Garrison Keillor (Because that fatherly, comforting voice is steady and loving in a way that my own father’s voice wasn’t.)

My dad (For liking books, voting for Clinton, and showing me that we are all flawed human beings.)

The shadows created by candlelight (A different sort of illumination occurs.)

A Different World (Because that Lisa Bonet was all kinds of hot.)

Roger Ebert (Who proves that you can be critical without being an asshole.)

Yarn (Important to humans and cats.)

Coffee (I like to flavor my sugar and cream with it.)

Jumping off metaphorical cliffs (It’s worth the risk. Always.)

iTunes (It’s nice to know that if I want to find old episodes of Knight Rider or that “Jackie Blue” song, I can.)

Climbing stairs (Sometimes it feels good to be out of breath.)

Cold, crisp nights where the stars are sharp and clear (To remember what awe is.)

The ocean on a black night, with a roar that goes on forever (To understand what sublimity is.)

TCM (Because Paul Simon was wrong…Everything looks better in black and white.)

Iced tea (Because it's the world's most perfect drink.)

Burning cds for friends (Because nothing says I care about you more than making you listen to my favorite Rita Coolidge songs.)

Myrna Loy as Nora Charles in The Thin Man (Sigh… I wish I was Nick. Nora’s irresistible when she wrinkles her nose.)

The 4 Kisses (The “I like you” kiss, the “I love you” kiss, the “The Oh My” kiss, and Hershey’s Kisses. If you get all 4 in one night, treasure it!)

Books (To help me find the words I’ve been looking for.)

Fallen leaves (To remind me that even death has a strange beauty and that "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of your philosophy.")

A glass of red wine (So I can release stress and pretend to be French.)

Floss Picks (Do you really want to go back to the old floss? I didn’t think so.)

Different fonts (Helping to keep life interesting.)

And last but not least, I'm grateful to *YOU* for reading this. Yes, YOU! :)

I Think My iPod is Gay

2006-11-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

This was inspired by a comic routine by Mark Day entitled "I Think My Tivo is Gay"…very funny stuff. I lost the link but if you got to youtube and put Mark Day and gay Tivo into the search engine you'll find it.

This is a warning to any concerned mothers, nuns, or conservative political readers who may be reading this. (This blog hits all those demographics, I assure you. Nuns LOVE me.) In this post I’m going to be using what the Catholics call “naughty” words. They are words that we’ve all heard and said before, say when you lock your keys inside your car or somebody speeds up to keep you from getting in the lane you want even though you’ve had your mother fucking blinker on for 2 fucking miles and you'd THINK that that ASSHOLE would have the common decency to--. Ahem. You see what I mean. But why stop there? I’m also going to be discussing sexual acts, which might be awkward for some. I completely understand. We live in sensitive times and any reference to sex has a corrupting effect. If you talk about sex, you will be become a degenerate whore compelled to either stick your most sensitive body parts into places where it wouldn’t seem like it would be a good place to stick them or you will be compelled to stick objects, organic or otherwise into any convenient opening located on your body. Strangely enough, if done right, this will cause another person to magically grow inside women, until it gets large enough to be expelled out their vaginas. Sounds unlikely, I know. At any rate, this is disgusting and people quite naturally would prefer to discuss more pleasant things like terrorism and supply-side economics. If this does bother you, I have a solution. Whenever I talk about missionary style sex, i.e., man on woman lovin’, replace the word “fucking” with “Doin’ the dishes.” When I talk about anal sex, replace any terms that offend you with “Listening to George Michael.” When I talk about masturbation, replace any offensive terms with “Offending God.” As in, “Don’t come in! I’m offending God!” This may seem rather silly, but it’s no laughing matter. Without euphemisms, there is no way red staters could reproduce.

I live in Idaho, which has been called the most Republican state in the nation. In fact, we just voted to amend the state constitution to ban gay marriage. I mean, it’s already banned. This is like a double-ban. It sends a message to liberal states like California, New York, and Oregon. We hate butt-fucking. Reaaaallllllllly. We don’t like guys doing it. And we certainly don’t want Californians to think that we, as a state, like things shoved up our ass. Cause we see the way you’ve been looking up at us, California. And we feel strangely vulnerable that you’re underneath us and we're not wearing any pants. I mean, we can *trust* Utah, but you guys? So this constitutional amendment is like a big ol’ butt-plug… a chastity butt-plug to keep us safe from those San Franciscans. Ha-hah! Your move, sodomites! Why don't you just keep on spooning with Nevada!

I mean, isn’t that what it really comes down to? Why is there such a fear of gays? It’s gotta be the ass. We are very protective of our asses. We remember “Deliverance” and we, much like Ned Beatty, do not want to “squeal like a pig.” But it seems like an overreaction. Like comedian Bill Maher says, it’s all a matter of taste, and should we legislate taste? I might be disgusted if you want to play “Congressman and pageboy” in the privacy of your own home, but I’m not going to try and pass laws to stop you. (Unless we are talking about an ACTUAL Congressman and pageboy. Wait till they’re legal, Congressman, wait till they are legal.) In fact, I think it is kind of creepy how we are overly focused on what other people are doing in their bedrooms. It's become a legislative obssession. Psychologically speaking, I think Freud might have a lot to say about this.

Now I’m straight, but I love gay culture. I think the gays (and I love to refer to them as “the gays”) have much better taste than the straights do. I’ve often said I’d be gay if wasn’t for the whole man-on-man thing. Frankly, I find men disgusting. I don’t see why anyone, male or female would be interested in having a heaving sack of meat grunting on top of you for, oh, say two minutes. (I’m not describing myself by the way. I last a lot longer than that. 4, maybe 4.5… give me some credit!) Women at least are soft and curvy. There is a poetry about them. Men are more like VCR instruction manuals. To read us you go from step 1 to step 2 to step 3 and even then you can rarely get us to work.

Anyways, living in Idaho, I recognize a kind of kinship with the gays. They are outsiders. So am I. They are persecuted by the government. I can’t prove it, but so am I. They have a strange fascination with Cher. Ummm… yeah… that’s my problem. I think my iPod is gay. If a member of the Idaho legislature were to peruse my playlists they would find some rather damning evidence. Oh sure, on the surface there are plenty of macho, aggressive, testosterone-laden paeans evocative of heterosexual glory. That Papa Roach song about wanting to mutiliate yourself? Oh yeah. That’s on there. (What is more macho than having a knife fight with YOURSELF? Hmmm?) And then there’s that James Blunt song “Beautiful.” Now that’s macho! He basically follows a woman around on a subway that he finds attractive. He spends the whole song leering at her, even though she obviously has a boyfriend, and then he creepily announces that “he has a plan.” Obviously that plan involves “Listening to George Michael” with her. And then, if that’s not macho enough, I have that 50 Cent song where he sings about being in a club and he’s wishing you a happy birthday. You know, 50 Cent, that muscular rapper who doesn’t wear a shirt and has that gleaming shaved chest… Oh dear. That one, perhaps, could get me into trouble.

But the fact of the matter is that I have some rather obviously gay songs. I have to wonder...Was my iPod born gay? Is there some sort of gay switch on the thing? Or did I turn it gay with my music choices? There is the aforementioned Cher. But come on, why should Cher be the province of gays only? Who doesn’t like Cher? Saying you don’t like Cher is like saying: “I don’t like happiness! I want to feel like shit! I’m going to go back to gouging my eyes out while listening to Slipknot. Cause it’s COOL.” Philistines.

There are also an inordinate amount of Pet Shop Boys songs on my iPod. When I first listened to the Pet Shop Boys in the 80’s, I had no idea they were gay, but eventually I started to have my suspicions. Maybe it was the fact that they were producing really good dance music. Or it could have been that a standard line from one of their songs was “Turn on the news and drink some tea/Maybe if you’re with me we’ll do some shopping.” Keep in mind this was before "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy." Or it could have been that they actually said they were gay. That was the final clue.

But perhaps the most damning piece of evidence on my iPod is “It’s Raining Men,” by the Weather Girls. This is the most addictive song in all of pop history. This is a very dangerous song for a straight man to love (especially in Idaho.) When I go to the gym and I’m on the treadmill and this song comes on, I must bite my tongue to keep from singing along. This, I’m sure, has saved me from being killed and/or deported to Canada.

In my car, however, I leave that umbrella behind.

Aaaaand...he's....OUTTA THERE!!!

2006-11-09T06:45:00.000-08:00

I'm reminded of a comment Gerald Ford made to the country when Nixon stepped down and the office was transferred to Ford. He said:

"My fellow Americans, our long national nightmare is over."

I'm *reminded* of that. It's not quite accurate in today's climate, but it does indeed feel like we're stirring from a national nightmare. Whether or not we slip back into it or not is another matter, but for the first time in 6 years I feel that elusive quality of HOPE.

Thanks for the meme

2006-11-06T01:42:00.000-08:00

As you can see, the blog looks different. It is *under construction*--ha ha-- which means I'm f*cking around and can't get it to look how I want. Links will be back when I get time... In the meantime, check out the awesome links to Google and "Edit-Me." Those rock.

Here is a meme. Try to contain your excitement.

5 Things Guests Ask For at Work

antacid
pillows
directions to Las Vegas
x-rated movies
milk

5 Things I've Read Aloud in the Hotel Lobby at 2 in the Morning

Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Mysteries of Udolpho
Hero and Leander
Flowers of Evil
Proverbs of Hell

5 Hotel Amenities

phones
bedding now with 50% less spiders
state of the art smoke detectors
guests can now swim in the pool for up to 1 hour with no adverse effects
aesthetically pleasing landscape paintings

5 Things I Do Instead of Working

This.
Drink Vodka.
Hide the coffee mugs of co-workers I don't like.
Name the decorative figurines, have conversations with them.
Think about death.

5 Things in the Lobby Fountain

Water.
Rocks.
Plants.
3 coins, each one seeking happiness.
Plastic fruit.

5 Best Prank Phone Calls I've Received

Girls tyring to sound like old ladies.
Long-sustained giggling.
Guy asking me if I had any "weed."
Kid asking me if we have hourly rates, then making porno music sounds.
Guy asking if we had any "rental" swimming trunks for the pool.

5 Books in the Hotel Library

Manufacturing Consent
A biography of Simone DeBeauvoir
Having the Frenchman's Baby
Psychology of the Imagination
Tom Clancy's NetForce: Point of Impact

5 Worst Names for a Cat

Psst
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly
Jesus
Urkel
Lord Furrybottom

5 Things That Make our Hotel Breakfast Great

Coffee now served in two exciting flavors, hot and tepid.
Fruit Loops kept in seperate container apart from the Raisin Bran.
Waffles in geometrically pleasant circular shape.
No MSG used in scrambled eggs.
Powdered creamer, when sprinkled over the shoulder, wards off evil.

The Lost and Found Manatee

2006-11-03T04:13:00.000-08:00

Manatee news story

This was in the news a week or so ago... A manatee was heading north up the Mississippi River... Which, of course, got me to thinking...What was that manatee thinking? What was that manatee hoping to find? So I wrote a lil' fable...and it goes something like this...

"Well something's lost, but something's gained/In living every day..."--Joni Mitchell, "Both Sides, Now"

And so it came to pass that the Manatee awoke one day, drifting in a gentle swell, and feeling not so-swell. He had just had a strange dream filled with strange waters and creatures he had never seen. It filled him with sadness when he looked around him and realized that he was in his familiar waters and not the strange ones. He missed the creatures in his dream.

But dreams fade as you awaken and the sun on the waves sparkled and danced with a trio of dolphins. He poked his head up and began to paddle with his strong tail, headed for the sparkling horizon where the dolphins played. He was a swift swimmer and he quickly caught up with the dolphins who were leaping out of the water and into the air. He laughed and made a honking noise.

“Can I play with you?” the Manatee asked.

The three dolphins, however, were solidly engaged in an elaborate trick that involved two of them leaping in a circular formation, while the third jumped through the ring that they had just made. And during this extraordinarily entertaining trick, one dolphin began singing, while the other two hummed in accompaniment.

“Swimming, swimming, dolphins three… This way and that in Unity… If you ask where we long to be… We’ll tell you we belong to the sea!”

After this, the Manatee clapped his flippers and honked in appreciation. “Bravo, dolphins three!”

One of the dolphins turned and smiled. “Thank you, Manatee.”

“Can I swim with you?” the Manatee asked again.

“Come sister!” the other dolphin cried and the dolphins grouped together and began to swim away.

“Wait!” the Manatee cried.
The friendly dolphin answered. “Silly, you are not a dolphin.”

They disappeared into the rays of the sun and the Manatee turned away. He was sad, but it was true. He looked at his fins and his massive body. Nobody would ever mistake him for a dolphin! His sadness made him feel very heavy and he suddenly had an idea.

“I know!” he said to the water and sky, who were listening. “I will swim. This place is sad and it’s making me heavy. I will swim away from the sadness and find that strange place in my dream!”

The wind rose up against the Manatee’s back and he began to swim with the current. He felt lighter already! From here on out he would leave his troubles behind!

The next few days the Manatee swam, stopping to sleep and nibble grasses and algae. Sometimes the current was too strong and pushed him back. Other times, he caught a swiftly flowing eddy and bounced forward with glee. His dreams were full of hope and promise. And as long as he kept on swimming, the sadness could not take hold. Then, after much swimming, he spotted the river. He had seen the river before and heard the tales of the strange creatures that lived in it, but he had never experienced any of it himself.

Even though he was exhausted, he felt a new-found energy surge through his aching body and he pushed forward to the mouth of the river. It would be tough going at first, but he knew he could do it. He slapped his tail down defiantly and swam.

The day began to fade and so did the Manatee. As twilight loomed, he spotted some tasty looking grasses at the banks of the river and he swam over to them. He tasted them. They were different, but good! He felt happy and proud. He let out a contented sigh.

“Who dat?” a voice called out from the weeds on shore.

The Manatee looked around, trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from.

“I know you out dere.”

The Manatee squinted and he saw a small lobster-like creature crawl towards him. “Hey, aren’t you a—“

“I’m a crawdaddy, what of it?” the crayfish snapped.

The Manatee clapped his flippers in delight. “I’ve heard of crawdaddies, but I’ve never seen one!”

“And you’re one of them…manatees, right? We don’t see a lot of your kind, you know. Shoot you sure are big.” Crawdaddy backed up. “Sayyy, you aren’t thinking of making me your dinner, now?”

The Manatee snorted air through his nostril. “What? Nooo. I like grasses. Algae is really good. Besides, you look really hard. I bet it’d be like eating a rock.”

Crawdaddy crawled back. “Yeah, break your teeth. You got teeth, don’t ya?”

The Manatee opened his mouth and said “Aahhhh!” There were teeth, but they were back inside of his mouth. They were hard to see.

“Okay, okay, I get it. You a grass-eater. That a load off my mind.” Crawdaddy looked at Manatee quizzically. “Sayy, boy, what are you doing in these parts, anyways? You don’t look like you belong here.”

As the Manatee considered the question, a pang of doubt shot through him and he felt that distant sadness catching up to him. Oh no! It was following him. And he had slowed down enough that it would soon be here! He turned away from Crawdaddy.

“I guess I don’t belong here.” He looked at the trees that were indeed strange. He bobbed in the water and the water was different from what he knew. The grasses tasted different than the grasses before. And YET, one thing had not changed. He had not changed. He was still the same ol’ Manatee and he didn’t fit in here anymore than anywhere else. He blinked away tears and submerged himself.

“Hey! Where you goin’?” Crawdaddy complained. “Sheee---ooot. That boy’s in a heap o’ trouble.”

And he was. For the next three days the trees shook and the wind howled. When Manatee was too tired and his heart got too heavy he lifted his head to the black, black sky and do you know what that sorrowful Manatee did? He howled too. He found the wind and he howled right along with it. The rains came down thick and heavy. The waves became fierce and choppy. And every now and then loud thunder cracked the sky. The Manatee did not flinch. He kept swimming upstream into the eye of the storm. Tree branches and wood flung towards him and Manatee ducked and bobbed and howled in protest.

“I DON’T BELONG!” he sobbed and his tears were heavier than the droplets of rain. He bellowed into the storm and then…the storm bellowed back. Whaaat? He heard a shout back, but it was a sound he had never heard before. It sounded like…Mom…

A chunk of wood flew past him, nearly hitting him in the head. He heard the sound again and then he saw the soaked, battered creature coming toward him, clinging to a piece of wood. It looked terrified and wild and it was howling too. It was a boy. And then that howling boy let go of the wood and the mighty river swallowed him up.

Manatee couldn’t breathe. That thing…that weak thing cried like him. And now that weak thing was gone. He had to do something. He dived underneath and desperately scanned the waters. There was nothing but chunks of rocks and wood tumbling past him, pelting him. No. He can’t be lost. He can’t. Manatee thought about the boy. He doesn’t belong here. This isn’t where he belongs. He turned and then he saw him! The boy! He was tangled up in vines, but the vines were keeping him from being carried further down by the current. Manatee thumped his tail and pushed with his flippers. “Oh, what a fragile creature,” he thought with worry. Manatee used his jaws to grab the boy by the arm and he pulled him free of the vines. Paddling desperately, he swam to the surface. He had to get him to land. This was a land creature, not a water creature. “I’m a water creature,” Manatee thought. “Don’t let this land creature die in the water,” he prayed.

The Manatee felt tired, as if he could no longer swim. “I-I can’t do it…” He felt himself sinking again. Just then the wind sung in his ears. And out of the black, black sky, the brightest light burst through, blinding him. “This way,” the wind sang. With a final surge of energy he rose up, blindly going into the light. A protective calm enveloped him and he felt as fluid as water. All his troubles seemed very small and Manatee pictured all the bad feelings floating away from him down the river. He didn’t think. He just was. He was alive. The boy was alive.

“Paul!” a voice cried. “Paul!” He had reached the shore, but was too tired to move. People came and took the boy. He felt the drops of grateful tears. “This manatee saved him. He saved him.” The voice sounded as tired as he felt. “He saved me,” Manatee thought. Then, he closed his eyes and slept a long, long while.

While he slept, he had the most amazing dreams. He dreamt of his old waters and the dolphins and the old grasses. He dreamt of the new waters he had seen and the Crawdaddy too. He dreamt of the boy, happy, smiling, playing. And still he dreamt on NEW places that only existed in his imagination. And in this dream he belonged not to just one place, but to all places, even the ones that he had never seen.

He woke up. He was in the old waters again. He looked around. He was alone. And yet…he wasn’t. He heard the wind whispering in his ears, the same wind that had always been there. But now, he listened closely. “Manatee…it is I, Sister Wind, who has brought you here.”

The sun glistened in the sky. “Manatee, it is I, Father Sun, who has shown you the way.”

The ocean twirled around and hugged him. “Manatee, it is I, Mother Ocean…And I…have missed you so much.”

Manatee began to weep and his manatee heart swelled with love. And as the wind blew and the sun rose and the ocean swirled, he heard their voices… “You belong. You belong.”

And he did.

Blood & Garlic

2006-10-26T23:28:00.001-07:00

The garlic bulb slipped out from between my thumb and forefinger and my mom’s paring knife sliced nicely into my skin. I cursed as a line of blood quickly rose up from the cut. Just as quickly, I turned to my mom, feeling somewhat chagrined for cussing in front of her. “Cut myself,” I explained, waving the injured finger in the air, hoping to distract her from my potty mouth with the sight of her son’s blood. She shook her head.

“I’ll get a band-aid, and you watch the water.” Her ingrained ability to task assignments when needed was something of a marvel. She nodded toward the pot on the stove. Bubbles were dotting the bottom of the pan like constellations and the water was starting to sputter and churn with the anticipation that always preceded great change. “Watch the water,” she repeated with more urgency, as if that would solve everything. I stuck my finger in my mouth, now sticky with blood and garlic juice.

I love cooking with garlic. The garlic bulb inside hibernates, snugly ensconced under the thin, fragile, crinkly skin, until you cut it and release its perfume. It’s a dizzying smell, overpowering not only with the sense of itself, but with hints of other things playing hide and seek: a thick circle of yellow onion with salt, a suggestion of vinegar wafting somewhere in the air, olive oil cracking in a frying pan. I am all this, it says, and so much more. So much life to taste, if only you’d allow yourself something this good.

I wouldn’t dream of canning dill pickles without having 3 or 4 good-sized cloves on hand to submerge under the dill strands and the baby cucumbers. There’s something reassuring about seeing those buried white bulbs shining through the bottom of the Mason jar, promising their flavor for the greatest good of everyone, diligent martyrs all. The purpose of garlic is to see the potential of the onion, the tomato, and the dill weed. That idea is the one thing my father gave me that I take unreservedly, without bitterness. I guess when I smell and taste garlic (and to smell garlic is to taste garlic, the water forming in the recesses of your mouth), I see him. My dad.

In 1988, my dad began dialysis treatment. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, and I still don’t understand all the medical terminology, all the wires and tubes and blinking pong monitors that, according to people who went to school for 12 years to understand such things, helped keep my dad alive past that arbitrary expiration date. My mom tried her best to give me the shorthand version. Dialysis involved hooking dad up to a machine three times a week to clean up all the crap in his blood that his failing liver couldn’t deal with. It seemed like something out of a futuristic Kubrick movie. I mean, they have a machine for that? So mom would drive him over to Boise. At the beginning I would tag along sometimes, hoping to score an X-Men comic book or a Mad magazine from the hospital gift shop. The process fascinated me. And you could always tell when he’d been eating garlic the day before. The nurses would laugh and cluck their tongues as they removed his blood, pungent with the thick aroma that had been coursing through his veins. He would always deny it, a little game of his.

I remember looking at that machine with a sense of awe and wonder. Three times a week my dad was laid low—an impossibility, I thought. How could this fearsome icon, the most intimidating presence in my life, submit himself to this ignominy? How could he admit to a weakness? Maybe he wasn’t my dad, after all. Where was the big man, the war hero, the sharpshooter who had killed Koreans and Vietnamese and now only slept in fits and starts as a punishment? Here he was. Here he sat, being waited on by children, mere children next to him, nurses like little girls in dresses scampering around him with their needles and I.V.s.

You owed these girls your life, soldier.

I would watch the blood drain out of him, making its way through the tube, not fully believing it. In about three hours, his blood would be returned to him, clean of toxins. You couldn’t get rid of the garlic smell, though, which was reassuring in a way. It gave me a vague feeling of hope knowing that the dialysis process removed what was bad and left what was good. Garlic was good.

He spent the next six years being hooked up to that machine before his body gave out on him. That’s a long time to fight God. That’s a lot of time to think. I wonder what he thought about. Dying, perhaps? Machine-gun fire in a sweltering, strange jungle? The people that were no longer walking, living, or eating rice because of his accuracy with a gun? Those trophies and medals that mom dug out and put on display in the living room? I wonder if he thought about me and just how fucked up everything got between us.

My mom came back with a band-aid. She had already removed it from the wrapper and I instinctively put my finger out as if I were five years old again. As soon as the bandage was around my cut, she turned sharply toward the stove.

“Oh shoot,” she muttered. “You let the water boil away.”

Ask a 16th Century Poet

2006-09-30T03:40:00.000-07:00

O elequont and just Fate! Attend to our human frailty in all of its foolishness and caprice. Ease the soul's torment; let thy soothing words heal all iniquity. Is there no balm in Gilead?

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

I recently asked out this woman that I have had a crush on. My biggest problem is that it's been years since I've went out on a date. When is the right time to move in and kiss her?

--Inexperienced in Indianapolis

Dear Inexperienced,

"Her lips did smell lyke unto Gillyflowers,
Her ruddy cheeks lyke unto Roses red;
Her snowy browes lyke buddled Bellamoures,
Her lovely eyes like Pincks newly spred,
Her Goodly bosome lyke a Strawberry bed,
Her neck lyke to a bounch of Cullambynes;
Her brest lyke lillyes, ere theyr leaves be shed,
Her nipples lyke yong blossomd Jessemynes."-- Edmund "Spense" Spenser

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

Recently I found out that my boyfriend has been cheating on me. With my sister! Now I feel like I can't trust him or my sister ever again. Should I forgive them? Is it possible to ever recover from this pain?
--Hurting in Hanover

Dear Hurting,

"Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest;
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise;
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed;
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary to reason."-- Sir Walter Ralegh

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

I am hopelessly nerdy and I can't get the ladies interested in me. In particular, there is this girl in my Gym class that is particularly smokin', but whenever I walk by her, she looks at me like I'm something she'd scrape off her shoe. How can I change this?
--Ostracized in Ontario

Dear Ostracized,
"There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow, which none may buy
Till "Cherry ripe!" themselves do cry." -- Thomas Campion

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

I have a friend who is always bringing me down. I try and see the positive in life, but my friend has a "glass-half-empty" perspective. It's really starting to bug me. What can I do to change his perspective?

--Sullen in Scranton

Dear Sullen,
"Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss,
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys,
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!" --Thomas Nashe

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

My fiance refuses to invite me to see his parents. He says that they are really picky and would just drive me nuts. I say, I need to meet them and decide for myself. Am I being unreasonable?

--Uncomfortable in Umatilla

Dear Uncomfortable,

"O false and treacherous Probability,
Enemy of truth, and friend to wickednesse;
With whose bleare eyes opinion learnes to see
Truths feeble party here, and barrennesse.
When thou hast thus misled Humanity,
And lost obedience in the pride of wit,
With reason dar'st thou judge the Deity,
And in thy flesh make bold to fashion it."-- Fulke Greville

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,
I live in an apartment with two roomates who are constantly fighting. They are both my friends, but both of them will try to get me to take their side. Sometimes I can see that one is clearly in the wrong, but I feel bad betraying the other one. What should I do?
--Conflicted in Chico

Dear Conflicted,

"Blame not my lute, for he must sound
Of this or that as liketh me:
For lack of wit the lute is bound
To give such tunes as pleaseth me.
Though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speaks such words as touch thy change,
Blame not my lute." --Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

My wife and I can't agree on where to go this year for our vacation. Is it wrong to consider seperate vacations?
--Frustrated in Fresno

Dear Frustrated,

"The chaste wife, wise, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night;
Contented with thine own estate;
Neither wish death nor fear his might." -- Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

I have a huge crush on a co-worker. I think he is interested in me, but I can't be sure and I'm not sure it's a good idea to confess such a thing at work. Is there a way to let him know I am interested and still remain professional?

--Pining in Pittsburgh

Dear Pining,

"Unhappy Dido burns, and in her rage
Throughout the town she wand'reth up and down,
Like to the stricken hind with shaft in Crete
Throughout the woods, which chasing with his darts
Aloof, the shepherd smiteth at unawares
And leaves unwist in her the thirling head,
That through the groves and launds glides in her flight;
Amid whose side the mortal arrow sticks." --Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

I recently found a wallet with no identification in it. But it had $100. Since there is no way to track the owners down, I say it's all right to keep it. My friends say that is wrong. Who's right on this one?

--Lucky in Louisville

Dear Lucky,

"FIE, foolish earth, think you the heaven wants glory
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
All's dark unto the blind, let them be sorry;
The heavens in themselves are ever bright.
Fie, fond desire, think you that love wants glory
Because your shadows do yourself benight?"--Fulke Greville

Dear Ask a 16th Century Poet,

My New Year's resolution is to lose twenty pounds. I'm ready to exercise and eat right, but my wife keeps on tempting me by eating bags of Doritos. I'm not sure how I can tell her that she is sabotaging my efforts.

--Dorito-less in Dover

Dear Dorito-less,

"Cupid, thou naughty boy, when thou wert loathed,
Naked and blind, for vagabonding noted,
Thy nakedness I in my reason clothed,
Mine eyes I gave thee, so was I devoted.
Fie, wanton, fie; who would show children kindness?"-- Fulke Greville

This has been "Ask a 16th Century Poet."

Come and Knock on Our Door

2006-09-24T02:07:00.000-07:00

In the short span of 1.5 months, school has taken over my life. And that's why you can hear crickets chirping around this place lately. It's deader than a church on Super Bowl Sunday. So what have I been doing, exactly? Besides downloading old Jackson 5 and O'Jay's songs off of iTunes? Well, I'm taking two, count 'em, two poetry classes... Renaissance Poetry and Prose & Romantic Poetry and Prose. (Note: if I would have taken a 3rd poetry class, my 4th one would have been free. Ah, well.) Lately, we've been studying sonnets. You know...those rhyming things that people used to write before there was rap. Anyways, there's a whole lotta them. And you know, there are quite a few good sonnets out there, but there is one major problem with the sonnets that I read. NONE of them are devoted to "Three's Company." Well, I set out to rectify this egregious bias against that most worthy of subjects.
Note: I followed the convention of the Petrarchan sonnet, which is ABBA ABBA CDE CDE. I tried to stay as close to iambic pentameter as I could, but that shit's hard! Here goes:

Come and Knock on Our Door
by David Scott

Come and knock on our door; the ancient sirens sing
Of glorious company three: nubile, randy.
Jack simmers, Janet quivers, Chrissy is eye candy.
Polyamory and Chastity, a strange fling--

Two women to which Jack cannot cling.
He sashays for Furley, a man that is handy.
His best friend is Larry, quite a dandy.
Of land, Mr. Roper is lord and king.

The couch, desolate of sexual forays.
Oh, Jack! You fell! A result of bad planning—
Oft times the sofa hides him on the floor

For those three who test the social mores…
Here comes another misunderstanding.
Run into the kitchen--watch out for that door!

How Well Do You Know the 80's?

2006-09-10T15:23:00.000-07:00

A quiz to change your life.

1.) Complete this song lyric. "This is what it sounds like __________________."

a. When doves cry.
b. When eggs fry.
c. When I eat pie.
d. When Dionne Warwick descries.

2.) Emilio Estevez was a member of what group?

a. Menudo
b. The Brat Pack
c. League of Assholes
d. Bunch of Guys Who Once Slept with Demi Moore

3. Which 80's song is really about masturbation?

a.) Dancing with Myself--Billy Idol
b.) She Bop--Cyndi Lauper
c.) Darling Nikki--Prince
d.) At This Moment--Billy Vera and the Beaters

4.) What was Oliver North guilty of?

a.) falsfying and destroying documents
b.) having bad hair
c.) wearing his military uniform into McDonald's to get discounts
d.) loving freedom a little too much

5.) What was the Jewel of the Nile?

a.) Danny Devito's left one
b.) Jewel's second album
c.) A holy man
d.) Michael Douglas' one chance to cavort in a Billy Ocean video

6.) What is Jody Watley looking for?

a.) a free lunch
b.) a red glove
c.) a new love
d.) a man who embodies the philosophy of dialectical materialism

7. In The Bonfire of the Vanities, what is the title a reference to?

a.) Jon Bon Jovi
b.) Bonham
c.) La Isla Bonita
d.) The 1497 bonfire organized by Italian priest Girolamo Savonarola, who urged the burning of material items.

8. Why was the A-Team on the run?

a.) unpaid back taxes
b.) they were on a book-signing tour
c.) they were convicted of a crime that they didn't commit
d.) Because they pitied the fools

9. Complete this song lyric... "Shot through the heart, and you're to blame...__________."

a.) "Our love will find a way, just give it time"
b.) "We built this city on rock and roll!"
c.) "You give love a bad name"
d.) "Everybody Wang Chung tonight"

10.) Who were "Simon and Simon"?

a.) mystery-solving brothers
b.) mystery-loving Sally Struthers
c.) chotske-collecting gay lovers
d.) frentically-smoking tree-huggers

Back to School

2006-09-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

Hey, first a big ol' apology for abandoning the blog for the last few weeks. School started August 21st and I've been buried under books, papers, and multi-colored index cards. Plus, I was attacked by wolves.

Yes, the Fall semester has begun and I'm back hangin' with people wayyyy younger than me. No, "dude" I wasn't at Woodstock, but I do remember Pac-Man. And evidently the fashion is to let your pants droop around your hips. I call this the "Norge" look.

Here's a lowdown of my classes, for those of you who are interested. If you're not interested, well I just don't know what to say to you. Quick, for the love of God, hit "next blog"!

Math 124--Introduction to Math Concepts. I'm an English major. I don't want to get to know math concepts, let alone be introduced to their evil ways. If I wanted to learn math, I'd become a MATH MAJOR. Is this so hard to understand? On the plus side we watched "Donald in Mathemagical Land." Thaaat's more my speed.

Linguistics. This one is kicking my ass. I'm not sure WHY I have to learn the phonetic alphabet, although I'm sure it'll come in handy on that new game show, "Who Knows the Phonetic Alphabet?" Barring that, I'm taking up valuable neurons that could be better served by deciphering R.E.M. songs. Come to think of it, phonetics might help me there.

Renaissance Poetry and Prose
Romantic Poetry and Prose. At last! Some friggin' English classes. I have to admit, in the great scheme of things, poetry is one of my blind spots. So I've been looking forward to these classes. Right now in Romantic, we're reading Blake, who rocks. In Renaissance we're covering the historical context...the Tudors, Lady Jane Grey, Mary, Queen of Scots... but we actually have yet to get to any poetry.

and my favorite class...

Femme Fatale in French Literature. The first couple of weeks has been examining the femme fatale in film noir. I did a presentation of "The Postman Always Rings Twice." I used fancy words like "epistemological," "hegemony," and "boobies." It was fun. Now we're reading Manon Lescaut, which is a lot of fun.

Of course, I'd much rather be goofin' off on the blog... I try and steal moments in-between learning faniks & embarrasing myself in front of professors to read blogs and leave commentary. Which is the way it should be.

Ask Brian "the Boz" Bosworth

2006-08-27T03:52:00.000-07:00

(note: these are actual Boz excerpts from his "autobiography")

Listen up, people! You got shitty lives! The Boz is here to help! Lay it on me!

Dear Boz,
I'm having a problem with my husband. Whenever he's on the computer, he refuses to let me see what he is working on. He says its for work. I think he's lying. What do you think? --Worried in West Virginia

Dear Worried: "Two-faced people suck. That's one reason I like football. There's no hypocrisy in football. There's no looking at both sides of the ball. If there's a guy over there in an orange shirt and you're wearing green, then you go kick the ass of the guy in the orange shirt. Simple as that."

Dear Boz,
I have a crush on one of my co-workers. I'm really thinking of asking her out. Do you think it's appropriate to do so? ---Confused in Chicago

Dear Confused: "Miami. The Orange Bowl. New Year's Night, 1986. And I'm standing on the field between plays, peeling a huge chunk of skin out of my hand and grinning. I'm not talking about a little skin. I'm talking about layers of skin, a big gouge of skin the size of a big broken rubber band. And it feels good. It hurts like hell, but it feels good. In fact, it feels great. The more skin, the better."

Dear Boz,
Me and my wife have lost that special spark between us. Things have gotten so bad we're thinking about getting a divorce. What should we do? --- Depressed in Detroit

Dear Depressed: "The only thing I like as much as football is making love. Okay, I like it better than, say, a regular season game, but not the playoffs. I like to make love in romantic, exciting places. One place I have not made love is in a perfect stranger's house. Just walk in the front door of somebody's house you've never met, find a room, and make love. The danger is half the fun. Haven't been able to convince my girlfriend on that one yet."

Dear Boz,
I am a complete geek and I don't know how to look "cool." I think if I had a little bit of fashion sense, I could get a girlfriend. Please help! --Stressed in Scranton

Dear Stressed: "I've got a serious jones for clothes. I must have twenty pairs of jeans. I wear mostly black. Makes you look ominous. The Raiders sent me this one sweatshirt: REAL MEN WEAR BLACK. I wear it all the time. That's my attitude. I guess I'm into clothes so much because I used to be a real Gomer in high school. Lots of polyester, lots of blends, Levis that zip up, golf shirts your dad would wear. I looked like Lumpy Rutherford."

Dear Boz,
Sometimes I get really depressed. I just don't know how to cope with life. What do you do when life gets you down? --SAD in Seattle

Dear SAD,
"Despite our being blown out of the play-offs in the first round...and despite the fact that our defense gave up more yards than Refrigerator Perry's shirtmaker... and despite the fact that it took some of my teammates a while to accept me for who I am (which, I admit, takes some time)... and despite the fact that I don't talk to my good buddies, the journalists of Seattle, for the entire regular season... my first season as a professional football player sometimes was a hoot."

Dear Boz,
Me and my best friend have known each other for years, but lately I feel like we are drifting apart. Is there any advice you can give me? --Sullen in San Francisco

Dear Sullen,
"Alonzo did something to me that game I'd never had doned before or since. He knocked me on my ass twice on one play. Twice! On one play! And then he gave me the Boz treatment. 'You low-life. I'll keep knocking your ass down, too, so you might as well just stop getting up, asshole.' Sounds like something off my greatest hits album. But the next quarter I hit him so hard he had to leave the game. He was hurting too. So I said, 'Take your candy ass out of the game, you crybaby.' Other than that, we were great friends."

The New Cars

2006-08-21T02:28:00.000-07:00

I have been car shopping. This is a fun activity enjoyed by scores of Americans who are really rich, like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. For me though (i am not Paris Hilton or Nicole Richie, although I have been confused for Ernest Borgnine) it is quite the chore. And by chore, I mean I'd rather hit myself in the testicles with a deluxe edition copy of Stephen King's "The Stand." The unedited version.

Car salesmen have a bad reputation. They are viewed by most people as the worst kind of scum, like politicians, telemarketers, and pedophiles. Well, come on, that's unfair. They aren't anywhere as bad as politicians. Still, the image of a greasy, ex-high school football quarterback in a suit and tie, who winks at the female customers and disparages women to the male customers is hard to shake. I knew that if I was going to find a decent car that had all the features I wanted (4 cylinder, good fuel economy, ejection seat, surface-to-air missle launcher), I was going to have to have a game plan. My first game plan consisted of locating a roaming pack of howler monkeys. Unable to locate said monkeys, I had to formulate plan 2. Operation: Indifference.

If there's one thing car salesmen hate, it's the feeling that their charm is not being acknowledged. Knowing this, I decided to undercut each car salesman, using this principle. I was working alone, but this principle actually works well in pairs. For example, if a car salesman approaches you, and tries to engage you in conversation, you simply ignore him and talk to the person next to you. If you are alone, simply open up your cell phone and pretend to talk about something really banal.
Car salesman: "Can I help you, miss?"
You on the phone: "Oh my god! Skim milk? REALLY?"

Another tactic is to ask lots of questions. It doesn't matter if they are related to cars or not. In fact, it's better if they don't.

Car Salesman: "Can I help you, little filly?"
You: "Can you tell me what the depreciation value is like for this model? What kind of fuel economy does this car get? Spock or Yoda? Who would win in a fight? Did Oswald act alone or was he a patsy of a secret cabal of a shadow government? What is Olestra? You're a car salesman, right? What is your favorite Cars song? If it matches mine, I will buy the first car I see."

Another tactic to disorient and fuck with car salesman is to pretend that you are rich and powerful.

Car Salesman: "Can I help you, my ripe young tomato?"
You: "Yesssss, dahlink, I am looking to buy a Ferrari, but I need it in teal to match my limited edition Assault Vehicle Hummer. I'll need trunk space for my collection of furs and other exotic animals...and oh yes, your balls hanging from the rear view mirror. Bow before me, plebian, but not before fetching me a chilled Peligrino!"

My favorite distraction technique was just to talk about anything but cars. "So what do you think of this number," the salesman would say pointing to a god-awful PT Cruiser (sorry, those things just look wrong to me). And it should be noted that every car salesman is obssessed with unloading PT Cruisers. Even if you go on a Kia lot, they have thousands of PT Cruisers that they are trying to get rid of. The first time I was shown one, I was pretty honest, but in a Larry David kinda way. I stared at it for like 5 minutes...
Me: "Eh. I'm not feeling it."
Incredulous Salesman: "You don't like the PT Cruiser?"
Me: "Eh...it's shape is...worrisome to me."
Incredulous Salesman: "People LOVE this car."
Me: "I'm trying to...The shape is disturbing."
Incredulous Salesman: "BUT--"
Me: "I'm trying to love the PT Cruiser! But it's not happening!"

After this, I just tried to change the subject.
Salesman: What do you think?
Me: What kind of shoes are those?
Salesman: What?
Me: Did you get those at Dillards?
Salesman: I, uh, I don't remember...
Me: They're nice.
Salesman: Now this car is perfect for you--
Me: Do they come in brown?
Salesman: Well, we have several colors...
Me: No, the shoes. Because I have black shoes. Not quite like those. But similar. So I'm thinking brown.

So, these are ideas to get you started in your quest for a car. Realistically, they probably won't help you. But they'll annoy salesmen. And really, isn't that what it's all about?

7 Days--7 Albums

2006-08-14T03:06:00.000-07:00

I started out making a Top Ten favorite albums list, which got progessively harder the more I thought about it. On any given day, there are scores of albums that could be my favorite. So I narrowed it down to 7 and removed the "best of" label. Instead, here are my recs for every day of the week. The ground rules: no doubling up (or tripling) of favorite bands/artists. Let's spread that love around. And no Greatest Hits. That's cheating. Speaking of cheating, let's start.

Sunday: Talking Heads-- "Stop Making Sense" Yes, it's a cheat because there are a variety of Heads songs in a concert setting. It's a completely valid choice, however, because the transformative power of the concert energy both changes and unifies the songs. Not only is it the best live album that I've ever heard, both in terms of technical skill and energetic passion, but it works as a good old-fashioned showcase of the musical inventiveness that characterizes the Talking Heads. Everything I love about the band and music in general intersects in this album. A great entry point for anyone interested in the Heads.

Monday: R.E.M.-- My 2nd favorite band ever. Not so much in style, but in earnest ebullience, R.E.M. is Talking Heads' lil brother. And nowhere did the stars align for these guys than with "Automatic for the People." A collection that melds the elegant with rock and roll messiness. The subject matter veers from personal to political and it all makes sense. "Find the River" is my favorite R.E.M. song ever.

Tuesday: Billy Joel-- "52nd Street" Billy Joel was the first musician I remember liking as a kid. He was a great writer of pop hits and often was described as a hitmaker in the Tin Pan Alley tradition. That's not inaccurate, but my favorite stuff that he did was the very jazzy, 70's era NY vibe that was on "52nd Street." To a kid growing up in a small Idaho town, 52nd street was a saxophone in a dirty, smoke-filled bar in NY. Plus it's got "Big Shot," my favorite New Yawk Billy Joel song ever.

Wednesday: Indigo Girls-- "Swamp Ophelia"--one of the few albums I can put on repeat and listen all day. Never did pay attention to which song was Amy Ray's or Emily's...just knew that I loved them all. Least Complicated & Power of Two are as deeply affecting as love songs come and that's because the girls realize that the best songs about love aren't abstractions, they're specific, personal journeys.

Thursday: U2--"All That You Can't Leave Behind"... Nobody can make the guitar sound like churchbell chimes the way the Edge can & likewise, Bono preaches the Holy Spirit like he's got 5 minutes to save your soul before the apocalypse comes. I actually liked the preceding techno albums, but "All that you can't leave behind" was a welcome return to the sound that made them famous. This one also gets sentimentality points because when it was released, the songs mirrored my life with a stunning authenticity. "Walk On" despite being played to death never fails to take me to a part of myself that I can't quite access without it. Elevation, Kite, Stuck in a Moment...it may sound sacreligious, but U2 is Jesus with a guitar.

Friday: Peter Gabriel--Up-- His last studio album is the one that keeps blowing my mind. As each new album increasingly veers from the mainstream, they also incrementally become deeper, darker, and more haunting. Each album has seemingly built on the last, becoming more "Peter Gabriely". UP takes all of the great PG themes... love, loss, fear... and throws them into a musical blender. The opening song Darkness creeps, then shouts, then breaks down to find release in hope. "I Grieve" is one of the most profound statements on death I've ever heard and "No Way Out" is tender, sad, and real.

Saturday: Simple Minds--"Street Fighting Years"-- U2 weren't the only ones in the 80's making arena-ready political pop/rock songs with beauty and clarity. "Belfast Child" is a poignant and goose-bump inducing reworking of an irish folk song-- (i forget which one)... Soul Crying Out is the rare song that rocks out and yet remains empathic and tender. This is Your Land (Featuring guest vocals by Lou Reed) offers (imo) one of the most moving songs on environmental responsibility ever. And a cover of Peter Gabriel's Biko is a triumph.

That's my week. Next week will change. ;)

100 Things About Me: a journey into narcissism

2006-08-08T09:37:00.000-07:00

(btw, the formatting and general idea for this post I stole directly from Eyre Affairs. Bwah-ha-ha!)

1.) There are screech owls in the trees across from our house that screech at me every night.
2.) I used to hate Jack Johnson, now I’m a fan.
3.) I once went to a church where the members surrounded me and yelled for Satan to leave this boy.
4.) I like to eat peanut butter and jelly on graham crackers.
5.) Peas are what they are serving in hell.
6.) My favorite Christmas album is a tie between Phil Spector and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
7.) I still read comic books. And I always will.
8.) I don’t believe in love at first sight. But I do believe that you can energetically love someone before you see them.
9.) I’ve seen the first two seasons of Queer as Folk.
10.) I’m addicted to pizza.
11.) The most beautiful sound in the world is laughter that comes out of nowhere.
12.) One of my favorite movies is “Ishtar.”
13.) My favorite Simon and Garfunkel song is “The Only Living Boy in New York.”
14.) My favorite book of the Bible is Ecclesiastes.
15.) I don’t like pina colodas or getting caught in the rain.
16.) I was Creon in a college production of “Antigone.”
17.) I play the Talking Heads song “Naïve Melody” anytime I move into a new place, just like it was done in “Wall Street” when Charlie Sheen moved into his new apartment.
18.) “Great Books” by David Denby changed my life.
19.) Sometimes I’ll see something funny in a movie and I’m the only one laughing.
20.) My favorite Emily Dickinson poem is “Much Madness is Divinest Sense.” (Not sure of the number.)
21.) I love garlic.
22.) I have the world’s ugliest suitcase. It was cool in the ‘70’s. But no one would ever steal it.
23.) Balboa Park is the coolest park on earth. Kick ass zoo, museums, the missions, and on outdoor amphitheater devoted to a pipe organ? What’s not to love?
24.) I have a Plymouth Voyager mini-van that has a Jesus fish and a Resevoir Dogs sticker on it.
25.) I always thought Kiss was overrated. And Gene Simmons is a no-talent ass clown.
26.) This last spring break, I drove around 3000 miles, which, I believe, is the equivalent to the Proclaimers walking 500 miles.
27.) I’ve never been to Canada.
28.) I’ve met Michelle Pfieffer and Anthony Hopkins.
29.) My favorite books include Lolita, The Grapes of Wrath, and Catch-22.
30.) When I was a kid, me and my friends Denny and Aaron, rode out on our bikes to the drive-in theater to sneak a peek at “Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life” and subsequently got eaten up by mosquitoes.
31.) I love New Yorker magazine.
32.) I’ve gotten somebody a bowling trophy as a present before.
33.) My favorite recipe is vegetarian pesto lasagna.
34.) My friend Mike and I both collect autographs.
35.) I’ve read all the original Hardy Boys mysteries.
36.) The best sushi I ever ate was in San Diego.
37.) Dolls are creepy.
38.) Talking childrens’ toys sound satanic when their batteries run down. Trust me.
39.) I used to work in a semiconductor plant.
40.) I believe the difference between infatuation and love is one of pain.
41.) I like Orange Crush but I cannot find it anymore.
42.) I’m currently writing a comic book with my artist friend Aaron, who is drawing it.
43.) “Lord of the Flies” makes me uneasy.
44.) Sometimes I wonder if my dead sister can hear me.
45.) My favorite couple is Bogie and Bacall.
46.) I lost my shorts in the Nile. No, really.
47.) Four more movies and I’ll have seen every Woody Allen film.
48.) When I met Michelle Pfieffer I asked her to sign my “Grease 2” album.
49.) I drink more iced tea than anything.
50.) I’ve been to Area 51. (well, to the fence, at any rate.)
51.) Sometimes I’ll crack open a road atlas, look at the maps, and travel in my mind.
52.) I got a D in swimming.
53.) I got a C in Rollerskating.
54.) I love to smell the coffee, even when I’m already awake.
55.) Sometimes, inexplicably, the theme music for the NBC Nightly News runs through my head.
56.) I’ve never seen a zombie movie. (Sorry, Waylon.)
57.) When we were teens, my friends Waylon, Jeff, and Satina assisted me in breaking into the condemned Junior High building in the middle of the night. We had to ply the boards off with a crowbar.
58.) Melissa Gilbert is hot.
59.) I am the least mechanically inclined male I know. And I’m including the gay ones.
60.) I went to the Gay Pride Parade in San Diego in 2002 with Satina and Shannon.
61.) Root Beer barrels rock.
62.) I have a catchphrase that I stole from my friend Waylon. It is: “I’m duly chagrined.”
63.) When I’m really sick, I put on Mozart’s Requiem.
64.) My favorite apples are Fuji.
65.) I once wrote an x-rated X-Files fanfic where Scully strips for Mulder at Disneyland. It was called “The Happiest Place on Earth.”
66.) I can’t stand Bill O’Reilly, but I must admit, without him, we never would have had the hilarious Stephen Colbert show.
67.) I have an embarrassing array of Sharpies.
68.) I have an “I shot J.R.” mug, but I do not know who shot J.R.
69.) After three hours of trying to put my computer desk together, I wanted blood. (other than my own.)
70.) Funny shit: Father Ted, Arrested Development, Ishtar, My Cousin Vinny, Curb Your Enthusiasm (I know…I lose credibility with Ishtar, don’t I? Just watch it, it’s great!)
71.) I’ll buy albums even though I do not have a turntable.
72.) Purple onions and cucumbers in red wine vinegar are wonderful.
73.) When I was a kid I lost my Han Solo in Hoth outfit action figure. Every now and then I think about it.
74.) I had a slingshot when I was a kid. (Note: never give a slingshot to a kid.)
75.) System of a Down’s “B.Y.O.B” is a fun song to sing in the car when you’re sitting in traffic.
76.) I once got a phone call from Joey Bishop. LOL, no really!
77.) I wish I could go back in time (and space) to visit ‘70’s era NYC. I’d haunt CBGB’s.
78.) The greatest television season finale belongs to “Twin Peaks.”
79.) I think “Vanity Fair” would make an excellent Broadway musical.
80.) I hope on this year’s Treehouse of Horror they do a Saw parody with Krusty.
81.) I once stayed at the Westward Ho in Las Vegas. They had a comedy show which they described as “ho-larious.”
82.) I’ve had a catheter ablation done. So did Tony Blair a couple years back.
83.) I’ve been known to tear up when I hear the “humming chorus” from Madama Butterfly.
84.) Typically, if a show isn’t available as a podcast or DVD, I’m not watching it.
85.) My dream dinner party would be Mel Brooks, Leni Reifenstahl, Dave Barry, Madeline Albright, Larry David and Malcolm X.
86.) Sometimes I think it’d be cool if Carly Simon hooked up with Art Garfunkel.
87.) The Family Circus is so unfunny it makes me angry. But then I realize how angry I am and I lauuuuuugh.
88.) I would love to visit Carhenge.
89.) I’m pretty convinced that there was unresolved sexual tension between Jo and Blair on the Facts of Life.
90.) When I’m tired I say really goofy thinks like: “I want to go to the school of Bon Jovi. I’m going to get a degree in Bad Medicine.”
91.) Why nobody has done a gay production of “Romeo and Juliet,” I don’t know.
92.) The Chieftains kick ass in concert.
93.) It’s not fun to drive a Uhaul and trailer over the Donner Pass. Or through L.A. at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. Trust me.
94.) I can dill pickles every August.
95.) I’ve never taken drugs. I once tried to smoke a joint, did it wrong, and achieved a state between ennui and opprobrium.
96.) I once met Joan Baez.
97.) A birthday party with out-of-control, hopped-up-on-sugar children can be as terrifying as Iraq.
98.) I did open-mic stand up every week for 6 months.
99.) I wasn’t that good. But neither was anyone else, so I fit right in.
100.) That g-damn Snuggle bear creeps me out.

Blueberries

2006-08-01T21:16:00.000-07:00

I live in a small orchard town known as Emmett. Times are changing, and as sprawl from Boise comes in, the orchards disappear and are replaced by new subdivisions and golf courses. This transformation hasn't fully occured yet. Much of what I love about this town is still here. There are still some orchards, though not as many as when I was growing up. Main Street, once the hub of the town, has fallen into disrepair, but the old buildings, many of which date back to the early 1900's, still hang on, trying to make the awkward shift to the modern. The old Rexall drug store where I used to buy colorful Spider-Man and Superman comic books now sells satellite dishes. Alma's Cafe, a greasy spoon that would have been a great setting for a Fannie Flagg novel, is now a pawn shop. And still, despite all of this ignominious change, I hold onto the town of my youth. One way I do this is simple. When July rolls around I go to Suyehira Farms, on the outskirts of the North end and I pick blueberries with my mom.

Suyehira Farms, owned by a friendly, elderly, Japanese fellow, sells blueberries two ways. They pick them for you or you can pick them. It's a little over $3.00 a pound if they do it and about $1.80 a pound if you get out there and do it yourself. Why, I wouldn't do it any other way, even if the price was the same. There's something to be said for picking the berry yourself, each one a rich treasure of flavor. If you go in the morning (which we did), the sun isn't too hot yet, but you do have to contend with mosquitoes. But, at any rate, residents of Emmett are used to that. Mosquitoes are so ubiquitous that we are on great terms. We name them and ask them how they are doing before we slap our legs and arms. I hate to tell you, but I had to kill Roscoe last night.

Between us we picked around 15 pounds. We like blueberries, but we aren't as greedy as we seem. Sisters each get a bag...friends...people at church. Plus we freeze them. Mom told me (and I think she picked this up from Martha Stewart) that if you put them on a cookie sheet and freeze them like that, you can then transfer them to freezer bags and they won't clump all together in a massive blueberry chunk. Then, come January, you take out a bag and have delicious, flavorful blueberries in your pancakes on a cold winter morning.

This batch was especially good. (Picking them requires constant sampling.) The color of the berries was a rich, deep blue, almost tinging into purple... Packed with antioxidents, they tell me! The fragrant tart of the fruit was misleading as when I popped one into my mouth I was pleased to discover that the tartness was subdued with sweet. A good batch. We immediately served a bowl with sponge cake and Cool Whip to reward our work.

Here are my two favorite blueberry recipes.

BLUEBERRY-CORNMEAL PANCAKES

1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup yellow cornmeal
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 cup plain nonfat yogurt
3 tablespoons skim milk
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 cup fresh or frozen blueberries

1.) In a large bowl, stir together flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, soda, salt, and cinnamon.
2.) In a medium bowl, stir together the egg, yogurt, milk, and oil. Add yogurt mixture all at once to flour mixture, stirring until moistened. Gently fold in blueberries.
3. For each pancake, spread about 1/3 cup batter into a 4-inch circle onto a hot, non-stick griddle or skillet. Cook over medium heat until golden brown, turning to second side when pancake edges are slightly dry.

Makes 4 servings, each 2 pancakes.

(I got this recipe from the Idaho Power bill, which includes recipes that supposedly use little energy!)

BLUEBERRY CRISP

5 cups thinly sliced, peeled tart apples (Granny Smith or pippen works great)
1 cup blueberries
2 teaspoons lemon or lime juice
3 tablespoons powdered sugar
1/2 cup quick-cooking rolled oats
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 tablespoons margarine

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
2. In large mixing bowl, combine apples, blueberries, lemon or lime juice, and sugar. Transfer to 2-quart square baking dish or 9-inch pie plate.
3. In small bowl, combine oats, brown sugar, flour, ginger and cinnamon. Cut in margarine until crumbly.
4. Sprinkle oat mixture evenly over apple mixture. Bake in preheated oven 30-35 minutes or until apples are tender.
5. Serve warm to one very greedy blueberry lover or six if you share.

Yield: Up to six servings.

(This recipe came from our local paper, The Idaho Statesman.)

My Love/My Writing

2006-07-29T23:45:00.000-07:00

by David Scott
It's been said that the only love that ever truly lasts is unrequited love. When I first heard that (and I'm not quite sure where I heard it), I dismissed it immediately as the defensive credo of the cynic. After all, the quickest and easiest way to deflect pain is to crouch slightly, tense up, and raise your fists about three inches from your heart. We do it all the time psychically, and the experts of this stance are called cynics, who wear their unrequited love like medals of honor around their necks. And if you don't dismiss these notions, if you play with them, like a five year old playing with a Zippo lighter and a pile of oily rags, you will become a martyr for your cause. And no one--no one--will mourn you. Not even other cynics. Because they know better.

So sure, I did my best to dismiss such a notion. But I couldn't quite leave it at that. There was something about those words--unrequited love--that resonated within me. So I pulled them apart and stretched them around like taffy. Unrequited love--love that is not returned. And then I had that moment of clarity where the gauzy sheen of the veil is lifted and I can see things for what they are. Ephihany. Love, true love, does not require outside energy to sustain itself. "Unrequited" becomes a superfluous descriptor. It's love, and only love that matters. We tend to confuse the issue when we're talking about one person loving another. For there are avenues of pain and sad knowledge that await the individual who embarks on knowing what it means to love somebody and not be loved in return. Keep in mind, I make no judgements on whether that is a journey worth taking. If experience is of value, then surely painful experience is the richest experience we can engage in. You can avoid it, but in a way, you avoid living.

The nature of unrequited love becomes clearer, however, when we talk about a love of something intangible. The love of an idea. If you can recognize beauty, the beauty behind the outward symbol, then you know what it is like to love the idea. The idea is that DNA strand that spirals upward, like gothic spires reaching towards heaven, creating the substance of whatever it is we find beautiful.

I think I've always understood the value of it, even if I never quite had the words for it. In the last couple of years of study, I feel like I have taken away a better understanding of how to pinpoint and articulate just why I am drawn to literature and writing. Why I connect. Why I love it.

I took a nonfiction writing class last year. Our text was a book called Word Paintingby Rebecca McClanahan, which I highly recommend to anyone who likes to string words together. One of her key refrains was to "pay attention." Her goal was to teach writers to use the tools of description to transfer what is in the heart and mind onto paper. I feel like I've learned a lot in that respect. (I have so much more to learn, however.) At any rate, I certainly pay closer attention to my word choices, deciding which ones serve me and which ones do not. Before reading this book, I considered writing to be similar to casting spells. A few arcane words, thrown out into the wind on a wing and a prayer, and presto! Hopefully you can pull a rabbit out of a hat. Thankfully, I learned that it's not enough to have intent (although intent is one of the most powerful forces in an artist's life). You must have a keen focus as well. Focused intent--a will and a way--is the true currency of the artist. You can have one without the other and still get lucky sometimes. It happens. However, when those kinds of spells go wrong, they really become spectacular disasters.

"Pay attention." Her words serve me well as a writer. It's almost too much to realize that they serve me well as a person, too. If focused intent is necessary for the writer to create works of purity, then the energy behind it must be love. (Unrequited love, mind you. This stuff ain't gonna love you back. If you need it to, if you need someone's praise, or a paycheck, or an award with your name on it, then you don't love writing. You are looking for something else and you will not find it here.) The love must be pure to ignite that brilliant white flame that melts everything into truth. Everything is connected. But you must pay attention. The details of life, the words people choose, the proper naming of things, the way a dog looks to a five year old boy, the way a boy looks to a five year old dog, a sunset after your heart has been broken, a sunset after your heart has mended. If you pay attention, not only will you become a better writer, you will find the love of life that drives the creative spirit. If you don't how can you recognize the beauty of the mundane? How can you possibly understand the importance of the trivial? It is all important, and if you discover that and feel that and love that, well, then you've got a reason to write, I believe.

There is only one reason to do anything. And that's out of love. Anything else is just asking for trouble. That's my primary reason for writing. My secondary reason is to fulfilll my obsession with communicating some piece of me to someone else. An essence that I can pour into word molds and harden into black ink (or pixels), that when read, become absorbed into the blood stream of another person. I don't ask for much, do I? Still, I know it can be done, because I've been on the receiving end of this "soul transfusion." When writing is pure and true, I receive a connection to another person. It does not matter if the person is alive or dead. All that matters is the physical manifestation of their consciousness. Their words.

How to Be a Fish in the Slipstream of Time-Space

2006-07-27T14:29:00.000-07:00

by David Scott

In 2003 Harvard and M.I.T. researchers discovered that fish swimming upstream to spawn like the James Brown sex machines that they are, actually piggy-backed rides on eddies, pockets of water flowing against the course of the stream (Massachusetts Institute of Technology). Using these natural flows, the little fishies actually used less energy than they would have in more sedate waters. Instead they used the “found” energy of the eddies to accomplish their task, in this case, procreation. Scientist James Liao observed this phenomenon, noting that the flexible muscle and skeletal structure of fish allowed them to bounce from one eddy to the next in an amazing conservation of energy.

Humans too, have their own naturalistic struggles: the desire to find food and shelter…a loving mate…a decent parking space. Perhaps paramount is the need to organize information into meaningful chunks. The greatest existential question is a resounding “Why are we here?” (The second greatest question, of course, is: “Where the hell did I leave my car keys?” Alas, Harvard and M.I.T. still have no answers on that one.) So, while the answers may be unknowable, our central hope for knowing anything resides in accumulating experiences, then reflecting and decoding them. The greatest obstacle to this, however, is the powerful force of the time-space slipstream, to which we are all subject to.

Now you can’t see the current of time ebbing and flowing and carrying you along with the current. But it’s there. It’s visible in its effects on our visual and audio markers. A circle K that we used to buy comic books from when we were 8 is now a seedy tobacco shop. The poetic grandeur of the trees that surrounded Rev. Granger’s lawn have been excised and cut away, leaving only an ugly mob of stumps. Radio waves from 1984, their vibrations devolved into the ether, are reduced to entertaining subatomic particles in your formerly beige carpet. Somewhere out there, there are particles jammin’ to Nena’s “99 Luft Balloons.”

This silver, taut thread of time shoots through you. Tethered, you are pulled towards the vanishing point of the horizon. This is the promise of God. You will not stop. The journey is endless. And the journey, whether you like it or not, will refine you down into your prime factorizations. What is the sum of your life experiences? If all goes according to plan, you’ll never know. This is the merry-go-round of time. Welcome. Here is your complimentary nametag.

Assuming time is a force to make us keep our appointments, let’s also assume time is a force that keeps us from understanding our appointments. As we rocket towards the future, the past speeds from us twice as fast. Memory, both conscious and unconscious is warped by this effect and accumulated insights take greater energy to access. New experience assimilates old experience and what was knowable at one point becomes something all together different at another point in time. This is both exciting and disheartening. These buried memories, if we can dig deep enough to find them are encased in the silt of time, like some Rosetta Stone. If found, each one of us has the power to become Champollion. Fulfilling our destiny to seek knowing. To understand.

Recovering memories by time-travel is no easy task. But we might learn from the fish studied by the Harvard and M.I.T. scientists. Those fish used the counter-energy found in eddies to propel themselves upstream using less exertion than initially thought. Going back in time, an enormous expenditure of energy, to say the least, can be accomplished by finding eddies in the time stream, or in other words, finding currents of energy pointing towards the past. Once found and identified, we can hitch ourselves to these “time-eddies” and access memories hidden in the past.

Just like time leaves a visual reference marker—the visible effects of change—it stands to reason that time-eddies have concrete visual markers as well. Remember, a time-eddy should represent an object or measurable vibration going against the normal current of time. Therefore, if we locate something that has not been visibly affected by the caress of time, then we have found our time-eddy.

Key to this task is locating a physical object that has a strong emotional resonance to it. Practicing on already-strong memories is a good way to exercise your time-traveling muscles. Re-watching a movie that you watched on your first date 16 years ago, for example, may propel you through the time stream so you can fully access the realness of such a moment again. Emotional markers, rarely unchanged by time, make the best vehicles.

When I play my CD with David Bowie’s “Modern Love” on it, I instantly travel to a warm December night in San Diego three years ago. It’s the same now as it was back then: a couple of notes plucked out of some guitar strings, the repetitive metronomic thump of the drums, and the opening line delivered in a rhythmic deadpan: “I don’t want to go out…I won’t stay in…Get things done…” And as Bowie’s voice ascends into a high-pitched, urgent whine, “I catch a paper boy, but things don’t really change…”, I’m back in 2002, taking the 163 back from Old Town. The Pacific Beach fog is curling in and around the palm trees and making everything cool and wet. Me and Shannon are singing along to Bowie at the top of our lungs and we both start to laugh when we’re hit with some of his stranger lyrics. “CHURCH ON TIME!!” we shout, then follow it up with a doubtful “MAKES ME party?” Is he saying “makes me party?” Undeterred, we plow through the goofiness enthusiastically, courageously unafraid to mumble nonsense when we don’t know the words. “It’s not hurrrrmmm-hurmmmm! It’s just La-Hoo-Da-Hurrrm! I’m still standing in the wind! But I never wave BYE-BYE!” Shout it out: “BUT…I…TRY….I…TRY!”

It’s important to note that handling a time-eddy is akin to handling an unstable chemical compound. Too much exposure can result in adverse effects for the user, such as becoming mired in the moments of the past. The intoxicating effects of nostalgia and sentimentality are potent, and potentially lethal. You run the risk of, as U2 famously put it, getting “stuck in a moment, and you can’t get out of it.” This is a true hazard and can actually keep the user from advancing forward in consciousness raising.

So, use time-eddies sparingly, record your experiences, and have fun! If you follow these guidelines, your inevitability will make more sense. I’ll see you on the flipside, little fishies!

Rachel Ray's Food Diaries

2006-07-24T00:11:00.000-07:00

March 17, 2006-- Dear Diary, today I went condiment shopping! They have these ketchups that come in different colors, like blue. When I saw them, I thought wow, that's weird, okay. I was freaking a little, let me tell you. Still, I like to try new things and mix it up. Mix it UP! (Oprah told me I needed a catch-phrase and I'm trying out a few.) And get this! The ketchup still tastes like red even though it's blue. Wacky! I bought 6 bottles because I had a coupon where you had to buy 6 bottles to get the 50 cents off. I loves my coupons. I'll be the first to admit it.

March 21, 2006-- Oprah, Steadman, Dr. Phil and his wife Laura Schlessinger came over for brunch, only it was *after* lunch, so I called it "linner." Dr. Phil thought this was really funny. I thought he was going to choke. He kinda smells, not to be mean or anything. Note to self: stock up on Renuzit, orange blossom smell! I was going to cook sea bass in a cream and butter sauce, but I spent the entire day fishing and could not catch any. Sorry, gang! So we ordered pizza. Get the door, it's Dominos! Ha! Ha! We washed it down with cold Zima. Dr. Phil got very drunk and made a pass at me. I should call him "Dr. Grabby-hands"!

April 16, 2006-- Well, today was the holiest of holidays, Easter. And you know what that means! Easter egg hunt! I dressed up in a Easter Bunny costume and hid eggs for the children at the hospital. Boy, I've never seen a more dispirited bunch. Just because you're hooked to I.V.'s doesn't mean Christ didn't die for your sins, ya little brats! Show a little Easter spirit! I also made deviled eggs, which, made me uneasy, as I'm not sure if that was sacreligious. I'll pray on it later. Later, I invited some friends over for what has become a new tradition: watching hunky Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ." Yowza! I got plenty of passion for that lethal weapon, Mel! Mix it UP! We had nachos and my special recipe "passion fruit jello salad." Two words: Yum. Me.

May 1, 2006-- May day, the 1st of May. I call it "Ray-day" and it's all about me, girlfriend! I was invited to the Today show and I decided to make one of my favorites, Almond Macaroons. They turned out beautiful, but that bitch Katie Couric ate every last one. Well, I silently forgave her because she's had to deal with so much, like being older than me and not as pretty. Plus she has no hair. It's a wig. Not many people know that. Not that I'm judging. I'm not a judger of people. I just think it's incredibly dishonest for a newscaster to lie to the entire g-damn world like that. Sigh. Ya can't win 'em all. Al Roker stared at my chest the whole time. He is creepy and doesn't use his nose for breathing. Wake up, America! (How's that for a catch-phrase?) ;) :) :)

May 13th, 2006-- Hallelujah! I think I've hit on a catch-phrase! A really, really good one! I was eating some scrambled eggs with Tabasco with my good friend Oprah and I took a really hot bite. My eyes started to water and I flapped my hands. Oprah asked me if it was hot and I screamed (somewhat angrily, I admit): "Darn tootin'!" New Year's Resolution: Must say Darn tootin' as much as possible. I smell ancillary revenue from catch-phrase merchandise! Also, today I bought the new Tom Jones greatest hits cd, which put a big grin on my face for the rest of the day. Is Tom Jones one sexy mammajamma? Darn tootin'!

May 27th, 2006--Stocked up on supplies. I love shopping! I bought boxes of plasticware, well, knives and sporks, to be specific. The check-out lady tried to sell me spoons AND forks and I thought, no way, uh-uh, you buy sporks and it's like having a spoon and a fork in one utensil. You save money, you save time, and they're just darn cool. Who doesn't like sporks? They're funny and we can use a little levity in this mixed-up world. Am I right? Okay, maybe you don't like them, Dr. "I'm so important" Phil. But don't rain on my parade. I also bought generic cans of tuna, because, really, you *can't* tell the difference if you use enough cheese in the tuna noodle casserole. Hel-LO! Cooking rules 101! Sheesh, I'm glad I'm me and not Katie Couric. Darn tootin'. (Note: What if they made a spork where the handle was also a knife? They could call it a "sporife." Hmmmm, let's put that in Rachel's "What if" file.)

June 14th--Hooray! The first day of summer is here and I am ready with my tankini, my spf 45 and a six pack of Tab! Look out, tanning booth! I'm ready for my close-up, Cosmo magazine! I was thinking of ways to make my show more relevant and socially conscious and I thought about doing something to feed the homeless. Than I thought: nahhh, there's people who do that already. Bor-ing! So I thought, what about people who are stuck in traffic and are hungry? Who feeds them? Light bulb above my head time! Me, that's who feeds them! I'm going to have a whole segment of my show called: Get out of my oven and into your car! You know, like that Billy Ocean song. Hey, we could even have a segment with Billy Ocean. Like, whatever happened to that Billy Ocean guy? Is he homeless or what? Maybe we could feed him. Light bulb! New segment called Feed Billy Ocean! Note to self: You are a genius!

Robert Frost's "Mending Wall"

2006-07-20T23:13:00.000-07:00

I was talking with a co-worker and the topic rolled around to politics, and by extension, wars. And of course, you can't have a conversation about war and politics in the month of July, 2006 without Lebanon coming up. And if you chat about Lebanon for a good 3-4 minutes you're bound to hit upon Israel. And shoot, once the conversation veers towards Israel, heck, before you know it, you're talking about Palestine. I won't bore you with the details, except for this: my co-worker quoted the classic Robert Frost poem, "Mending Wall," ending his point with the line "Good fences make good neighbors," which I assume was a reference to the so-called "seperation fence" being constructed by Israel as a barrier between them and the West Bank. Like Frost's narrator, I didn't want to just come out and dispute the meaning of his statement. Instead, I urged him to read the poem again. With that in mind....

"Mending Wall"
by Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Yeahhhhhhhhh, Didja get that Meme?

2006-07-18T21:19:00.000-07:00

I was reading Thursdaynext's delightfully entertaining meme on her blog (see sidebar for link: Eyre Affairs) and I decided I would lovingly rip off the concept. Why? Because I have something important to contribute? No. Because I am lazy? Because I am creatively bankrupt? Yes.

5 Things on my desk:

1. a world band radio
2. a mug that says "I Shot J.R."
3. condensation run-off from my glass of water
3. The Edward Said Reader
4. a stack of Memorex CD-RW discs
5. a business card for Tokyo Love (it's a sushi place, gutter-minded)

5 Things in my freezer

1. cold air
2. ice
3. "All That Caramel" ice cream
4. a cookie sheet holding fresh blueberries
5. wrapped packages of meat

5 Types of connective tissues in my body

1. Blood
2. bones
3. cartilage
4. tendons
5. adipose tissues

5 Songs Recently Played on my iPod

1. Don't Look Back in Anger by Oasis
2. When the Sun Goes Down by Arctic Monkeys
3. My Doorbell by the White Stripes
4. Senegal Fast Food by Amadou and Mariam
5. Sin by Nine Inch Nails

5 Songs NOT on my iPod

1. Friends in Low Places by Garth Brooks
2. I'm a Whiny Bitch by Nick Lachey
3. I'm a Skanky Ho by Paris Hilton
4. I'll be There for You by The Rembrandts
5. Imagine by Lindsay Lohan

5 Things in my wallet

1. Driver's license with my pic that makes me look like a serial killer
2. BSU Student ID with my pic that makes me look like I'm high
3. 5 Subway cards with two or three punch-holes punched out on each one
4. a Movie Gallery card that I don't use because of late fees
5. a Vons card that I got in San Diego but can't use in Idaho because we don't have a Vons here.

5 Things NOT found in my wallet

1. Money
2. condoms
3. snacks
4. metaphors
5. placenta from my first born

5 Words found in "A Moveable Feast"

1. inaccroachable
2. framboise
3. Gertrude
4. rectal
5. thermometer

5 books on my shelf that I have NOT read

1. A Moveable Feast
2. This Side of Paradise
3. Uncle Tom's Cabin
4. Oliver Twist
5. Lady Chatterly's Lover

5 DVDs on my shelf

1. Moulin Rouge
2. Father Ted Season 1
3. Hotel Rwanda
4. French Kiss
5. Arrested Development Season 1

Excerpts from Graham Greene's "The End of the Affair"

2006-07-18T10:45:00.000-07:00

This book is one of those books that ceases to be words on a page and instead takes up residence in the Byzantine corridors of my soul. Whether by chance or destiny, these pathways curve and loop unexpectedly, causing even the most ardent curiousity-seeker to give up and seek more rewarding surroundings. I sympathize. If I could join the exodus, I would. Instead, I have rooms decorated tastefully and singularly devoted to objects and ideas that suit me. Never let it be said that I was ever afraid to love unloved things. Maybe that's why my soul is my own and nobody elses.

As I was thinking these thoughts, I ran across a passage that eeirly echoed my own:

"The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity."

Here are some other choice quotes:

"I would have liked to have left that past time alone, for as I write of 1939 I feel all my hatred returning. Hatred seems to operate the same glands as love: it even produces the same actions. If we had not been taught how to interpret the story of the Passion, would we have been able to say from their actions alone whether it was the jealous Judas or the cowardly Peter who loved Christ?"

"It occured to me with amazement that for ten minutes I had not thought of Sarah or of my jealousy; I had become nearly human enough to think of another person's trouble."

"I wanted to cry unobserved, and I went to the National Portrait Gallery, but it was the students' day-- there were too many people, so I went back to Maiden Lane and into the church that's always too dark to look at your neighbour. I sat there. It was quite empty except for me and for a little man who came in and prayed quietly in a pew behind. I remembered the first time I had been in one of those churches and how I had hated it. I didn't pray. I had prayed once too often. I said to God, as I might have said to my father, if I could ever have remembered having one, Dear God, I'm tired."

"I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate, and walking there beside Henry towards the evening glass of beer, I found the one prayer that seemed to serve the winter mood: O God, You've done enough, You've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone for ever."

The Story of Jazz

2006-07-16T00:27:00.000-07:00

A thrift store find, The Story of Jazz, by Marshall W. Stearns, was the first non-fiction selection for my summer reading. I had recently started watching Ken Burns' enormously entertaining mini-series, Jazz, on DVD, that I had checked out from the library (I'm on part 4) and I thought that this book might just be an illuminating companion piece. Still, a few caveats were in order. I'm a music whore and will give anything a listen, but I couldn't begin to explain musical vocabulary, let alone used in a jazz context. Plus, as a jazz neophyte, much of the music was new to me. The wonderful thing about jazz, however, is that there is a stunning array of accessible music that does not require anything beyond a pair of ears to hear the music and a soul to react to it. You don't have to know about blue notes, the tonal scale, syncopation and the like. The Story of Jazz does encompass the technical with the history and the history with the passion and this holistic approach makes this book essential for beginners.

Much of the book is dedicated to the influences that gave rise to jazz, in order to attempt a definition. The success of this book, it should be noted, is that it does all of this in a friendly, easy to read style. While not exactly "Jazz for Dummies," the text, nevertheless avoids the pedantic cadences of a specialized text book. Stearns makes clear in his introduction that he is an unabashed fan of jazz. His passion only accentuates his role as instructor and storyteller for this jazz primer. He does not fall into the simple trap of acting merely as a cheerleader.

The influences are as fascinating as they are diverse. Much has been made of jazz as a true American artform and Stearns outlines the musical forces that converge to make this happen. The slave trade brought Africans to the New World, and with them, their customs, rituals, and music. Most notable were the West Africans method of "call and answer"-- a type of communication where one leader would call out a statement and others would answer in response. This wasn't just a form of music, it was used in religious rituals, group councils, etc. The "work song" associated with the African slaves derived from this and made its way into Christian services (such as the Southern Baptists). It also became a key component of much of the new music that was to follow, such as the blues, jazz, and rock and roll. In music, the call and answer didn't have to be two spoken lines. The dialogue could be between voice and instrument. In the blues, a singer might wail: "My baby done up and left me..." and "answer" with a blast of harmonica (ba da da bump). I was cross-checking this with the entry on Wikipedia and the example they gave was of The Who's "My Generation." The call would be "People try to put us down..." and the answer would be "Talkin' 'bout my generation."

In addition to the blues and its usage of call and answer, Stearns talks a great deal about "blue notes." Not having a strong musical background, I never really quite got it, but I'll try to at least share the stuff that I found interesting. The African influences were fascinating to me, and the blue note, as we know it in jazz, Stearns asserts, probably made its way from Africa. A Western classical scale has the basic notes that we use to sing and play music. My understanding of this is solely from "The Sound of Music." "When...you know the notes to sing... You can sing most any-thing!" You know the song. But Stearns writes: "it was discovered that Negro folk singers, and especially blues singers, have a consistent habit of hitting a note...that does not occur in the equal-tempered scale of classical music. They sing what is known as a 'neutral third,' that is, a note precisely between 'Do' and 'Sol'..." (327). A blue note, if I'm understanding this correctly, is a note played lower than a specific note that we would recognize on a classical scale. What's insanely cool about this, is that people could hear it, and enjoy it, but you did not have the ability to notate it and write it out in sheet music to just pass on. You had to hear it and you had to feel it.

Another key component (and I would say, this is THE key component of jazz) is improvisation. This doesn't seem like a big deal today as improvisation in music, dance, the arts, etc, is pretty well established as a credible method of expression. Before these musical forms that would converge into jazz became established, however, the tendency was to a play a march the way it was notated and not mess around. Jazz took that regimented, classical discipline and used it as a leaping off point for its music. New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz, had no shortage of marching bands during the civil war as an influx of Northern troops occupied the city. After the civil war, many of those army marching bands' instruments made their way into the general populace, introducing the sounds of a brass band to the rhythms and styles of the African music. Jazz great Buddy Bolden is first credited (around 1895) with taking the blues and adding brass to the mix of string and harmonica. Experimentation is at its root, improvisation, and without it, we would not have jazz or it's antecedents.

While all of this stuff (and more, much, much more)makes this an interesting book, the music itself is pure life and soul. I'd recommend picking up any Louis Armstrong cd because, imo, he is the one guy who represents the exhuberence and spirit of everything I love about jazz. His version of "Ain't Misbehavin'" might just be my favorite piece of music, bar none. There is an ineffable quality about it that vibrates within me like a tuning fork. Stearns points out that improvisation changes the character of each piece and that true virtuosos are so good you should be able to tell their general attitude toward life while they are playing. He specifically notes a exhuberant performance that Louis gave after his honeymoon. The possibilities for original artistic expressions are incredible. Now, I love literature and I love the written word, but something in Louis' playing resonates in a way that transcends words. His era (the early age of jazz) is my favorite era and my favorite style (hot). I haven't quite caught onto the later cool jazz, which is a little bit more removed, eclectic, and harder to figure out. A great resource would be your local library. Better libraries are bound to have extensive collections of jazz and you can't do any better than checking out Ken Burns' documentary and boxed cd set (entitled "Jazz".)

Miscellany

2006-07-13T14:59:00.000-07:00

Stuff...

I've updated the links sidebar... Lots of bloggy goodness to check out.

I saw Superman Returns. GREAT, but the first super-hero movie that depressed me. I love that though. Lois has moved on, has a new relationship, kid, life. AWESOME. That's humanity, Supes, welcome to it!

Ever hear of that classic TV show, "Heat Vision and Jack"? No? Well, that's probably because it never aired. Ben Stiller produced this pilot that was never picked up. It stars Jack Black as Jack Austin, astronaut, who gains super-intelligence whenever the sun comes up. He rides a sentient motorcycle (think Knight Rider) that talks to him (voice: Owen Wilson.) Together, they are on the run from evil Ron Silver, as himself. No really. It's ho-larious. Check it out at youtube.

Also, check this out... guy trades paperclip... for a house? One of the coolest stories I've ever read...
Yahoo News

The Politically Correct Book of Job

2006-07-11T09:45:00.000-07:00

by David Scott (based on a story by God)

Note: I'm a big ol' liberal, so I just want to point out, I'm laughing at myself. ;)

Once upon a time, in a land that would eventually be coveted for its oil-rich resources and strategic proximity to the Holy Land, there lived a man named Job. This man was enlightened, a free-thinker, empathetic, and always took the care to recycle. He had the utmost respect for Mother Nature, or as She was often known as: God or Goddess, depending on what gender aspect S/He decided to honor on any particular day.

Thanks to herbal fertility supplements, Job's wife had seven sons and three daughters. Although Job, the designated sperm donor, could not possibly understand the pain, suffering, and toil that was involved in carrying TEN freakin' children to term, he still managed to honor the Goddess within by handling the domestic duties involved in maintaining their home, thus setting a nontraditional example to others in the their land. It was the LEAST he could do.

Job owned the largest free-range, cruelty-free ranch in all of the land. He maintained a carefully balanced, symbiotic relationship with the earth and all the thousands of living things that called the land home. Job also had many employees, all of them enjoying a living wage, with health, dental, a 401k plan, and stock options. On Friday, they had Hawaiian t-shirt day.

His sons would often take turns holding celebrations and self-improvement workshops in their own homes, and they would invite their sisters to eat baked tempeh and falafel, to atone for the gender disparity. There they would indulge in a glass of antioxidant-rich red wine, which, in moderation, had been touted for its health benefits, or perhaps a cup of soy milk, if they were feeling adventurous.

One day a multi-cultural multitude of angels, representing every race, gender, and sexual orientation came before Goddess to perform lesbian protest haiku, which Goddess always enjoyed. It was Her second favorite thing, right after Ani DiFranco albums. The Adversary, or Dick Cheney, which is the direct translation from the Hebrew, arrived with them. They did not mind this as they realized that inside, Dick Cheney was a lost, litle boy who needed love and acceptance.

"Namaste, Dick!" Goddess greeted with love. "Where have you been lately? I was beginning to worry. The cheribum have been nervous. You never write, you never call..."

"Oh, I was out doing my thing...Strengthening the military-industrial complex, cutting funding for the poorest among us, making inappropriate homophobic comments. You know, the usual," Dick Cheny responded.

Goddess sighed and shook her head. "I sense great pain in you Dick. The longer you hold on to it, the more it will keep you seperated from the bliss of All That Is."

"That gets less inspiring every time you say it," Dick sneered.

"When I need inspiration, Dick, I always find it in nature. I mean, have you seen Job? Here is an individual who truly lives in the light and is always in touch with his true, authentic self. He always embraces positivity and good. Maybe he has a lesson which you could benefit from?" Goddess smiled encouragingly.

"You're kidding right?" Dick said with a smirk on his face. "Oh, this guy's living in the light all right, the light coming off of his new iPod. C'mon, it's easy to be positive when you go to bed each night, snuggling in between your 1000 thread count sheets and reading Deepak Chopra under the soft glow of the newly installed track lighting! Job's never known a day of true pain in his whole life. You take away everything he has and I'll give you another red-state voter."

"Okaaaay," God said doubtfully (for He had switched to his male aspect so as not to marginalize the male angels in His company.) "While I don't agree with your viewpoint, I want you to realize I respect and honor it. I hope that by embarking on this learning experience, it will bring about positive chance within you." God paused. "Just don't kill him, Dick."

"Why the hell would I do that?" Dick responded, somewhat bemused. "How would that help me win my arguement? Just killing the guy?"

"I just wanted to make sure--"

Dick pointed his finger towards God. "You. Are weird." Then he turned into a giant winged monkey and flew away.

One day, when Job's sons and daughters were holding their harmonic concordance festival, a messenger came to Job, looking quite panicked.

Job started to feel his pulse quicken and a sense of dread racked his body. "We're not out of tofu, are we? Goddess, out with it!"

"It's worse, Job," the messenger said between breaths. "The oxen...the sheep... the beavers... They've been captured by Procter and Gamble! They're going to test their cleaning products on them, despite there being many cruelty-free alternatives to animal testing!

"Good Goddess!" Job exclaimed. "When did we get beavers?"

"Oh, Job, they're being murdered for their pelts. And what's more, your assitants... your assitants, Job..."

"They're being tested on by Procter and Gamble?"

"No, no, worse. They've formed a Young Republicans Club."

Job shook his head in disbelief. Then he looked squarely in the messenger's eyes. "We must be strong. Everything happens for a reason. I'm sure this will turn out for the best. After all--"

Before he could finish another messenger ran over and interrupted, in an urgent, but respectful way. "Um, excuse me, Job? Sorry to interrupt your wise speech, but I have to let you know that do to excessive use of chlorofluorocarbons, there is a hole in the ozone layer the size of Fleetwood Mac. I'm talking about all their members stretched from one end to the other. Through it, dangerous ultraviolet rays have given the donkeys skin cancer. I'm sorry, Job."

Job sighed and looked bewildered at all of this bad news. Still, he made an attempt at holding it together. "That's truly awful, my friends," he said weakly. "Perhaps we can start a petition, write impassioned letters to the editorial pages..."

Before he could finish, yet another messenger ran up to him. Job started to tremble. "Job, you need to sid down, old friend." Job pulled up a rock and the messenger kneeled before him. "I'm afraid I must tell you that your children have left this world, Job. They have ended one chapter and started another one, leaving us to continue on in this world."

"You mean... you mean they're dead?" Job stammered.

"As a doorknob, Job. They were burning something...incense, a sage stick perhaps, to clear the energies. That's when the fire began. If only the house had been up to code, Job, if only--" The messenger began to sob.

"There, there," Job said, trying to comfort through his own tears.

"IT HURTS SO MUCH, JOB!" the messenger wailed.

They hugged it out. Fifteen minutes later, they let go and Job said, "Did...did anyone survive, old friend?"

The messenger's face lit up. "Yes! Why yes, Job! Little Mandy made it out of the fire! Only one year old and she crawled out of there, the plucky little thing. Isn't that great, Job?" They both started to laugh.

Just then, Dick Cheney, in the shape of a large eagle, swooped down, picked up little Mandy in his talons and dashed her upon the rocks.

There was much wailing from Job and his three messengers. Job ripped his clothes off, gnashed his teeth, and pulled out his hair. "This...is...a...really...BAD...DAY!!!" Job shouted. Then he felt a calm wash over him. "But somehow, being naked makes it better. I will live in this moment with a grateful heart. I surrender my heart ot the love of Goddess! Blessed be!"

"Wow," Goddess sniffed. "That's just so moving. It needs music. When he says 'Blessed be,' the choirs should just swell. I'm telling you."

The angels murmured in agreement. Dick Cheney crossed his arms, perturbed. "I know what this really needs," he said in a sinister tone.

"Oh, Dick, you've been practicing your sinister tone! That's really quite good," She praised. All the angels clapped politely. "Really 'grrr,' scary. You have so many talents, big guy!" She beamed at him proudly.

"You're not even listening to me," Dick said sullenly. "You never listen to me!"

Goddess' back was turned talking to a group of angels. "I love Shakira!" she cooed, before turning around to face Dick. "Oh, I'm sorry, Dick," She said contritely. "What were you going to say? What does this really need,"she said, echoing Dick's sinister tone.

Dick stood there pouting. "I don't want to tell you now."

"Come on. I really want to hear."

"No, no, it's ruined."

"I was listening. I'm omnipotent. I hear everything!"

"Forget it!" Dick started to walk away in a huff.

"Please, Dick," Goddess implored. "I promise to truly, actively listen."

"Okay, okay," Dick said, his grin spreading. "This really needs... BOILS!!"

"Again with the boils!" God said, switching back to the masculine. "You know that's your solution for everything."

"Never underestimate the power of a good boil," Dick responded.

"Maybe...and this is going to sound crazy...maybe you should try encouragement, kindness, and love instead of fear and hate."

Dick put his hand to this chin and looked thoughtfully up at a cloud. "No, no, I think I'd like to just try the boil thing. Unless you think that my somewhat nontraditional viewpoint is in someway less valid than yours..."

God looked aghast. He pointed his holy finger at Job (index, for the curious). "Don't think I don't know what you're doing..."

"I'm just sayin'..."

"All right, all right, I'll give you another chance. I just sincerely hope you realize that I'm doin this for you, Dick. Because...I love you." God raised his hands up. "There, I said it and I feel better. And deep down inside I know you love me too."

"You. Are weird." Then Dick Cheney turned into a giant winged monkey and flew away.

That night Dick Cheney replaced Job's eco-friendly, non-toxic, organicaly made soap with a bar of Zest, made by Procter and Gamble. Job, being somewhat distracted by his recent losses didn't notice and used the bar to cleanse his entire body before going to bed.

The following morning, Job awoke in the monstrous shape of a cockroach. Which turned out only to be a misguided literay allusion. Then he woke up again, his body racked with geysers of pain. He was covered in boils. "Did you replace the soap?" he yelled to his wife, who was in the other room.

"No, why?" she asked, walking in. As soon as she saw him, she screamed. "GOOD GODDESS!" Then she composed herself, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "Ummm, that's a...that's a new look for you," she chirped unconvincingly.

Job began to cover himself in garbage.

"Oh, Job," she sighed. "Truly things are bad. You know there is always the option of euthanasia. Perhaps you are meant to move on and help the planet by depopulating it by one."

"Dear heart," he answered. "I don't mean to criticize or demean your point of view in any way, but I sincerely think that I need to honor Goddess by living in the sacred spirit. Maybe then I will find enlightenment.

"Yeahhhhhhhh," she said and walked out.

Job's three friends, Eli, Bill, and Zoe, all of varying ages, genders, races, and sexual oreientation, came over to comfort him. When they saw him, they were much repulsed and began to weep. They ripped off their clothes. "That is so sad," they all seemed to agree, "but somehow, being naked makes it better." Then they formed a healing circle and began to sing R.E.M.'s "Everybody Hurts."

After the third encore, Job found himself in serious need of a professional counselor specializing in grief and boil therapy. "I'm feeling less than abundant right now," he admitted, shakily. "Truly, the thought of divinity seems like some sort of illusion that I've wasted my life chasing all this time. I am alone in the universe."

The three friends gasped in unison. "Whoa there, friend," Eli said compassionately. "That's just stinkin' thinkin'."

"Yeah, Job," Bill chimed in. "I know you're having a spiritual challenge right now, but let's not talk crazy."

"I'm not crazy!" Job spat. "My baby girl got smashed on the rocks by a devil-bird!"

"Oh, Job," Zoe piped. "If only you could see the negative energy coming off of you right now. It is like seriously affecting my vibration. I can't even see your heart chakra right now. It's like...you don't even have a heart. Man, that's creepy."

"Oh, so now I'm heartless...and creepy!" Job wailed.

"Wow, he is gone," Zoe murmured to Bill and Eli, who nodded in agreement. "Cuh-ray-zee," Bill sung.

"Well, Job," Eli asid. "It's like you have told us before. Like attracts like. If you're having negative thoughts, you're bound to attract negativity. You create your own reality."

"So you're blaming me?" Job asked, incredulously. "Don't you understand? It's me! I'm the most positive person in the world. I WAS the most positive person in the world. And weird, terrible crap still happened to me. I had nothing but pure thoughts of love and abundance. I was connected to the Infinite Source!"

"Think hard, Job, are you sure you didn't have any negative thoughts, perhaps even on the subconcious level? Something you're not even aware of?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know that? If it's subconscious, I'm not conscious of it, now am I?"

"Hoo boy, we need to clear his chakras," Zoe whispered to Eli and Bill. "Let's hold hands and form a chain." They turned back towards Job and Zoe began to loudly enunciate. "We're going to hold hands and form a chain, Job!"

Job backed away, shaking his head violently. "I don't want to hold hands! Life sucks! And have you watched Jay Leno lately? It's like he's not even trying!"

Realizing that Job was in a negative space and filled with dark energy, the three friends decided to leave and just psychically send him thoughts of love and healing. Just then, Eli's younger sister, Elly arrived. They told her the whole ordeal, which made Elly very sad.

"You guys," she admonished. "I know Job is in a dark place, but he doesn't need to hear words of discouragement!"

"Job," Elly said, walking towards the corner where he had curled up into the fetal position. "I know I'm just a teen and I haven't read all of the spiritual books that you have, but hear me out. I respect you so much. I've always looked up to you and thought, wow, that guy's got it together." Job grabbed his sleeve and blew his nose into it, loudly. "Listening to you," she continued, "you taught me that we are always connected to Source and that nothing can truly break that. You can choose to ignore that connection, but it cannot be broken. You can deny your divinity and your spirit, but you cannot eradicate it. YOU taught me that Job. You. Goddess is everything including the pain of the boils and the wings of the devil-bird that carried off Mandy. Everything that is, IS. The danger in life is to deny death. Because when you deny death, you deny life. And when you deny life, you deny yourself. And when you deny life, you deny---I'm sorry, where was I?"

"You lost me," Job said, confused. "Pain of boils, then something else... It was helping though."

Just then Goddess appeared in the shape of an enchanted water cooler. "Job," the voice echoed with majesty through the room. "It is I. The Source of all things. I have something important to tell you."

Everyone in the room gasped in awe. "A...talking...water cooler!" stammered Job.

But first, drink of me, everyone, for my water is pure, fresh from the springs of heaven, and free of chemicals and additives."

They all made an orderly line and filled their cups and drank of Her, and it was truly refreshing. It made them all seriousl renew their desire to clean up and protect earth's water sources.

"Thank you for the water, Goddess," Job said. "But I still cannot help but feel like a lost child in a 24 hour Wal-Mart. That is on fire. And all the doors are locked." Everyone frowned at the simile. "Why do you torture me so," Job wailed, his voice cracking.

Goddess turned into her human form and sighed heavily, for Job's plight was truly pathetic. She sniffed and magically created a box of Kleenex with which to blow her nose.

"Oh Job," she said. "Take a look around you. Look at the earth. The stars. All the wonderous creatures. Birds. Ice Cream. Anal sex. I created them all."

Job looked at her, somewhat confused. "And your point is..."

"Oh, Job," she said, turning away. "It's just...it's just... I worked SO hard on the, what do you call it, the universe. And...and..." Goddess began to cry. "I just, I don't know, I thought you might be a little grateful, that's all." With that she began to bawl.

"Hey, uh, hey," Job said tenderly. "I...it's not that I'm not grateful, it's just that..."

"I mean, do you know how long it takes to create a constellation? That's a lot of heat, Job. And then to put them into interesting shapes... I didn't have to do that you know. But I just wanted it to be... I wanted it to be special. For you, Job. I wanted it to be special for you."

At this, Job began to weep copiously. "Oh, Goddess, I'm sorry. I was truly being self-serving. I had my own human interests at heart and wasn't even validating the intrinsic spark of the divine that exists in everything. Please forgive me!"

Goddess smiled great big through her tears and they embraced, which was somewhat awkward for Job because he was afraid that the hug might be misconstrued in a sexual way.

After that, Job got together with his friends and formed a healing circle. Zoe cleared his chakras using a set of very powerful crystals and they all agreed to intend only positive things. Then they all played Scattergories.

Goddess blessed Job, returning the imprisoned animals back to the land where he nurtured them back to health, but not before taking pictures of their horrible mistreatment to use in PETA literature. Also, him and his wife decided to adopt a litter of crack babies, rather than to add to the already increasing overpopulation problem.

And so it was that Job and his family lived and prospered, taking comfort in being connected with the Source that is Goddess, and delighting in a state of abundance and love.

Dick Cheney eventually came to terms with his homosexuality, entering into a committed relationship with Gabriel. Job, and his family and friends held a coming out party and welcomed into their circle of love.

Guilty Pleasure Songs

2006-07-09T00:05:00.000-07:00

For the last few months I've been in the process of transfering my cds over to mp3s. This is fun, and sometimes, an emasculating process as I confront some of the stranger songs in my collection. And I'm not talking about weird but cool cover songs by ska band Reel Big Fish. I'm talking about the creepy stuff. The embarrasing stuff. The stuff that would be humiliating to admit to in a case with the RIAA. "Yes, it appears on June 14th, 1999, you illegally downloaded the entire Britney Spears album 'Oops, I did it Again.' Is this true, Mr. Scott?" Me: "Yes, but I didn't enjoy it!" With that in mind, I'd like to present my top ten favorite guilty pleasure songs. The songs I secretly, and now publicly love. I won't hide in shame any longer. I'M HERE! I LIKE SPEARS! GET USED TO IT!

10.)"Blue (Da Ba De)" by Eiffel 65. Imagine a techno song with lyrics so singularly devoted to one color as to be perfectly suited for the talents of say, either Grover or Cookie Monster. (The song really works if you picture Cookie Monster.) But no, it's a group known as Eiffel 65 and the lead singer actually sounds eerily like...Adam Sandler? Listen to it if you got it and tell me I'm not wrong. The lyrics are absurd to the point where Beck would be envious, but with a singular focus to let you know that it's not just random non-sequitors. Adam, er whoever it is, starts the song with :"Yo listen up here's a story--About a little guy--That lives in a blue world..." and sure enough, that's what you get. And let's face it, when all is said and done, it makes more sense than "Hollaback Girl."

9.)"Mr. Roboto" by Styx. Oh sure, today such bands as Radiohead win all sorts of snotty awards with their concept albums about technology and alienation (OK Computer.) What many people so convienently forget is that Styx was alerting us all to the dangers of, um, robots, specifically one named Mr. Roboto. Dennis DeYoung sings: "The problem's plain to see: too much technology. Machines to save our lives. Machines dehumanize." Take that, Radiohead!

8.)"The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. When I think of Kenny Rogers, I think of the now defunct Kenny Rogers Roasters, where they had delicious bar-b-q chicken and artery-clogging mac-n-cheese. Alas, Roasters went out of business, but we still have Kenny Rogers' cheesy music. And it doesn't get anymore cheesier than Kenny's "The Gambler," a song that has certainly convinced way too many amateur poker players that they did indeed, know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. Which brings up the fundamental flaw of the song. HE DOESN'T ACTUALLY TELL YOU WHEN TO HOLD 'EM OR WHEN TO FOLD 'EM. He just says you need to "know when to walk away and know when to run." When is that, Kenny? WHEN?? He does tell us that "the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep." Well, that's helpful. Personally, I'd rather die of a heart attack after finishing off a delicious plate of Kenny Rogers' mac-n-cheese. Maybe there should be a song about that.

7.)"The Reflex" by Duran Duran. Duran Duran's lyrics have never made much sense. But no one has ever made such little sense with so much style and energy. When Simon LeBon belts out : "The reflex is an only child he's waiting in the park--
The reflex is in charge of finding treasure in the dark--And watching over lucky clover isn't that bizarre..." you can't help but thing that Simon has been drinking while reading Dylan Thomas and listening to Culture Club. No matter. He sings it as if he is imparting the greatest of truths, which somehow makes me scrutinize the lyrics even further, certain that once I get it, my third eye will open.

6.)"Convoy" by C.W. McCall. Back in the 70's people in the South lived for smuggling moonshine in semis across state lines. Pre-cell-phones, they would communicate to each other using CB radios. Again, it was the 70's. Everybody was stoned out of their minds. They would talk in codes and take on CB "handles" like "Pigpen" and "Rubber Duck." (See: Smokey and the Bandit.) Sometimes this required the assistance of monkeys. (See: B.J. and the Bear.) Sometimes, you'd have to write a country song about it. That's where C.W. McCall stepped in. A true visionary, McCall sang about "huntin' bear" way before N.W.A. rapped "Fuck tha' Police." The song is catchy, weird, and the chorus sounds like it's being sung by Muppets. Holy crap. I've just got an idea for the next Muppet movie. "The Great Muppet Convoy." The chorus goes: "We've got a great big convoy, rockin' through the night! We've got a great big convoy...ain't she a beautiful sight?" Yes, yes she is.

5.)"I've Never Been to Me" by Charlene. I think I'm the only one who remembers and loves this song to death. This is the song that Jim Steinman WISHES he could write. Charlene sings this soap operatic tale that puts Dallas, Dynasty, and The Thorn Birds to shame. What's more, she sounds like Barbara Mandrell while doing it. Sample lyrics that I feel compelled to shout out in the shower: "Oh, I've been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run...I took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun..." Charlene gets major Guilty Pleasure points for #1, not having a last name, and #2, when she gets to the penultimate section of the song, she doesn't sing it, she opts for speaking plaintively over the music: "Hey, you know what paradise is? It's a lie, a fantasy we create about people and places as we'd like them to be-- But you know what truth is? It's that little baby you're holding, it's that man you fought with this morning-- The same one you're going to make love with tonight--That's truth, that's love..." Thanks for clearing that up, Charlene.

4.)"Jessie" by Joshua Kadison. Ah, the early 90's. A time of musical upheaval. Nirvana. Nine Inch Nails. Joshua Kadison?? For those who don't remember or for those who just don't want to remember, Joshua Kadison was a one-hit wonder who favored melodic piano-based love songs. In other words, he was for people who thought Michael Bolton was too edgy. With "Jessie," Joshua pines over an ex-lover he just can't quite get over. He sits around, takes care of her cat and waits for her calls. Clearly a man with boundary issues, Joshua keeps on letting Jessie back into his life as she convinces him to "drink tequila and look for sea shells." Still, it's a wonderful fantasy that tells us that we can find love if we enable someone, and by the end of the song, I too, have fallen for Jessie.

3.)"Bad Day" by Daniel Powter. Currently on the C.I.A.'s torture playlist at Gitmo, "Bad Day" has that certain insidiously catchy quality that insures that if you hear it once, it becomes next to impossible to get it out of your system. It's the musical equivalent of a parasitic tapeworm. Ironically, I believe the song is supposed to be a source of comfort...an understanding nod of sympathy from one who cares. IMO, however, it comes off like a dismissive husband who was watching the game and was only pretending to listen to your problems. When taken ironically, the song becomes quite hilarious.

2.)"Two Become One" by Spice Girls. Yes, just when you thought I couldn't sink any lower. I publicly admit to having a Spice Girls song on my iPod. And it's not even "Wannabe," which is truly grating. No, it's a love song, and what's more, it's a love song for gettin' it on. You know what I'm talkin' about. The kind of romantic crooning reserved for the likes of Barry White. The type that is supposed to inspire erotic gymnastics. Well, nothing says romantic gymnastics like the Spice Girls. Over the course of the song these five British hotties seemingly challenge each other to see who can provide the dumbest verse. Winner: Posh Spice: "Any deal that we endeavor--boys and girls feel good together--Take it or leave it, take it or leave it..." I hope that's not the line she uses with David Beckham. The highlight of the song has to be towards the end though, as the Girls embrace social responsibility and turn it into an ode for safe sex. "Be a little bit wiser, baby, put it on, put it on--Cause tonight is the night when two become one.." Such is the incendiary lust-generating power of their music, it definitely needs a disclaimer such as this one.

1.)"Muskrat Love" by The Captain and Tennille. In the 70's, the Captain and Tennille were a popular musical duo that has yet to be replicated in terms of charisma, musical talent, and keen fashion sense. For that, we must be thankful. "Muskrat Love" is one of those songs that few musical groups would touch. For one thing, it's about muskrat love. This isn't a metaphor for something... Tennille is actually singing about two muskrats getting it on. What's more, it's a slow gentle love song sung with no hint of irony. Sample lyrics: "Now he's tickling her fancy, rubbing her toes...Muzzle to muzzle, now, anything goes as they wriggle..." This is probably a good time to point out again that it was the 70's and everybody was stoned out of their minds. They made pets out of rocks, fer cryin' out loud. It should be noted that the Captain and Tennille sequel, "Badger Fucking," did not enjoy the same success, despite being covered by Sinatra.

Fun with the GRE

2006-07-06T11:57:00.000-07:00

I recently bought one of those study guides to assist those taking the GRE. I bought the Kaplan version because it looked the most inviting and it didn't cost thirty dollars. (Which is how I choose all my purchases.) My advisor told me not to worry about the quantitative portion of the test because it does not factor into whether they accept me into the BSU grad program (for English, at any rate.) So I'm totally ignoring that section, even though it feels weird. I can just see my advisor snickering to herself: "Ha! He bought it!" Right now, I'm concentrating on the verbal section.

I'm only about 20 pages in and I've already learned quite a bit about the test. For instance, it's a computer test and it analyzes how well you do on a question, adjusting the test based on your performance. What, am I being tested by Deep Blue or something? The very first question that is given to you is of medium difficulty as the computer assumes you're right in the middle of the curve. Miss it, they give you an easier one. Get it right, the next one is harder. And here's the thing: the harder questions are worth more points. Before I knew this, my brain was going through scenarios trying to figure out a way I could strategically miss harder ones just to get easier ones, but the system doesn't reward you for that.

The very first sample question stymied me. It was an Analogy question.

DIATRIBE: VITUPERATIVE ::

* flattery : sincere
* parody : lamentable
* equivocation : evasive
* dissertation : unasailable
* cliche : original

The fact that this was the first question and I didn't know it not only worried me, it pissed me off quite frankly. The analogy questions are all about the relationship between the two words. My problem is that I didn't know two of the words: vituperative and equivocation. (Question: Does anyone use the word vituperative? Answer: People in grad school, I guess.) Well, the sneaky GRE people KNOW that if you don't know a word, it's probably going to be something like vituperative. That's why they throw it in there. So, I looked them up and sure enough the relationship between diatribe and vituperative correlated to equivocation and evasive. Vituperative is, loosely, harshly abusive language; acrimonious. Equivocation means, loosely, to speak in ambiguity; having multiple meanings. After reading that, it made sense as I remembered the word "unequivocal" as having something to do with certainty.

The book was kind enough to give me a vocabulary list of the top 50 or so words that the GRE tends to test on. Some of them I knew (anomaly, enigma). Some of them I didn't (prevaricate, enervate). But most disturbingly, there were those I was sure I knew and was completely wrong. The word "prodigal," for example was something that I had gotten so wrapped in with the "prodigal son," that I was certain that "prodigal" meant returning. D'oh! (It means recklessly wasteful. Big difference.) Precipitate meant to cause to happen before anticipated; falling from a great height. What a bizzare word. I had a vague impression that to precipitate was to cause something, but the dictionary was way more specific. The moral of the story is that I need to look up all the words that the study guide gives me, regardless of whether I think I know them.

Anyways, I'm glad I picked up the study book. I clearly need it. Plus, it's fun to learn new words. Now I just gotta work "vituperative" into casual conversations.

Happy Independence Day, America!

2006-07-03T12:54:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm a day early. But I am crazy-busy this week and just wanted to note our Independence Day. Instead of musing effusively over what I love about America, I thought I'd just have excerpts from Henry David Thoreau. On the back of my Signet Classic's edition of Walden, there is a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson stating that "No truer American existed than Thoreau." And while everyone has their own American heroes (Thomas Jefferson is one of mine), I think Emerson's classification of Thoreau as a true American is solid. Here's some of my favorite "Walden" quotes...

"In the long run men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better aim at something higher."

"We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate."

"To make a railroad round the world available to all mankind is equivalent to grading the whole surface of the planet."

"Yet men have come to such a pass that they frequently starve, not for want of necessaries, but for want of luxuries..."

"The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of usawakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night. Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music, insead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the air--to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way."

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately..."

"I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things."

"The universe is wider than our views of it."

"Nay be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought."

"Yet some can be patriotic who have no self-respect, and sacrifice the greater to the less. They love the soil that makes their graves, but have no sympathy to the spirit which may still animate their clay. Patriotism is a maggot in their heads."

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

"Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only. Money is not required to buy one ncessary of the soul."

"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."

"There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star."

Bastard out of Carolina

2006-07-01T03:24:00.000-07:00

“Nothing left to do when you know that you've been taken.
Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb
Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting--
waiting for the miracle to come.” --Leonard Cohen

I had received far too many recommendations from people I respected to be surprised by how good Dorothy Allison’s “Bastard out of Carolina” was. But, there I was, at the end of the book, a little woozy, a little uncertain of the ground beneath me. The first couple of chapters were solid, exactly what I was expecting. One of the rah-rah quotes at the beginning was from one of my favorite authors, Barbara Kingsolver, who I consider to be one hell of a writer. There’s a certain down-home Southern-fried emphasis on familial relations coursing through the veins of her books, and I expected the same from Allison. In fact, over the last few years, I’ve enjoyed quite a few well-written family tragedies, such as Jane Smiley’s “A Thousand Acres,” Mary McGarry Morris’ “Songs in Ordinary Time,” and Jane Hamilton’s “A Map of the World.” All of them entertaining, but none of them as raw and uncompromising as “Bastard out of Carolina.” “Bastard” is the real deal, an authentic tale of love—wanting it, needing it, and making do without it.

On the surface, Allison’s narrative is about an adolescent girl, Bone, who attempts to survive the dark rage of her new stepfather, Daddy Glen, who’s jealous assaults put her in a physical and emotional hell. Allison’s descriptions of abuse are brutal… I went from compulsively flipping through pages, desperate to get to the next sentence, the next word… to reaching the next paragraph in horror and having to put the book down to take a breath before continuing. It’s rare when a book can stop me in my tracks like that—to get me that emotionally keyed into the character. When Allison is done with you, you taste the mixture of blood and dirt in your mouth and you feel the utter soul-aching sense of loss. Feeling is empathy, and empathy is a key component of relevant storytelling. It's what Allison does, and does well.

The sense of loss drives the book. Bone longs for a sense of love from her Mother that her Mother Anney can never give. Daddy Glen’s an empty, soulless shell whose desperate need for love destroys what it cannot have. Anney looks for connection in the eyes of Glen. This empty circle is a bitter, but useful lesson in the dangers of wanting what you cannot have, despite the perceived injustice of it all. An open hunger for love becomes possessiveness to the point where it is no longer about seeking possession--it possesses you. Sometimes love is not returned. Or maybe it is as I once heard it described: “One loves, the other condescends to being loved.”

And yet, Allison’s book is about survival. If these feelings are universal (and if you disagree, lucky you, you dodged a bullet somewhere in life and may your luck never run out), then the lesson seems to be, generate your own love. I do not feel that it is accidental that Aunt Raylene, the character who seems the most centered and well-adjusted is a character that has removed herself from the desperate pull that other human beings have on each other. She is not a hermit; she has family. It's not about isolation. But her own spirit is self-sustaining. In her past she has had to give up a lover. It has made her stronger. Maybe that is the lesson… you have to give up the need for love to cultivate your own. Allison’s words are tough and unsparing. She doesn’t sugarcoat anything. And yet, their transformative power gives the reader something that only the best and rarest literature can give: a glimpse of hope.

Because in the end, there is no miracle. In the end, we are the miracle.

How Well Do You Know Jesus?

2006-06-29T15:11:00.000-07:00

Here is a quiz. How well do you know the words of Jesus? On Judgement Day, you might just get a quiz like this, so if I were you, I'd start studying, sinner. I've grouped 4 quotes in clusters. In each group, 3 of the 4 quotes are MADE UP. Only ONE quote in each group has come from Jesus. Do you know which one? Think carefully, foolish one.

1.
a. "Get behind me, Satan."
b. "Suffer the little children in Hell."
c. "Who wants fish?"
d. "Thou oils truly are refreshing on my feet."

2.
a. "Ye shall know the Pharisees by the length of their beards..."
b. "Take heed and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees..."
c. "The sins of whores interest me..."
d. "Lo, I am Jesus and I am here to rockest thou."

3.
a. "The wrath of the hungry bear shall be loosed upon the Israelites..."
b. "A drunken man has a better chance of entering Heaven than a sober man..."
c. "Hell is for children."
d. "And he shall rule them with a rod of iron..."

4.
a. "As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten..."
b. "Thou art so vain, thou probably thinkest this song is about thee..."
c. "Hold thy tongues in the presence of the Lord."
d. "He who is without arms, cast the first stone."

5.
a. "When I look upon thee, I am filled with a great loathing."
b. "The baptism of John, was it from heaven, or of men?"
c. "Spare the cross and spoil the children."
d. "Whosoever looks upon another with lust in his eye, looketh upon me."

6.
a. "I am a rock. I am an island."
b. "Verily, I crave gelato."
c. "I have meat to eat that ye know not of."
d. "The Rabbi that weareth many robes hideth many chest hairs."

7.
a. "Why do ye not understand my speech?"
b. "Imagine there is no heaven; it's easy if you try."
c. "Bring me thy whores; they shall comfort me."
d. "Peter, go forth and batheth. Thou art offensive to thine Lord."

8.
a. "Do you know what that's worth? Heaven is a place on earth."
b. "Woe unto thee, Chorazin!"
c. "The prayer of many is wearisome to God."
d. "Beware the flaming sword of Jehovah!"

9.
a. "God dislikes the unclean."
b. "Shew me the tribute money."
c. "Tough crowd."
d. "The keys to the kingdom of Heaven are hidden somewhere in my robe."

10.
a. "Thy nipples are hard with righteousness, oh saucy one."
b. "And I will kill her children with death...”
c. "How many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man?"
d. "I have prepared a feast for thee. I hope thou likest Frito Casserole."

A Prairie Home Companion

2006-06-26T22:57:00.000-07:00

This isn't an easy movie to review. I've been looking forward to it all year and I enjoyed it, but I can't really recommend it, unless you're already a fan of either director Robert Altman and/or radio show host/author Garrison Keillor. Which are two very specific types of audiences. If you're curious it certainly wouldn't hurt to rent one of Altman's sprawling mundane epics, such as "Nashville" or "Short Cuts." Or, at the very least, heading on over to Prairiehome.publicradio.org should lead you to an episode of their weekly radio show. Now, it's not necessary to do either one of these things to understand the movie, but as a precaution, you should know the type of entertainment that you're getting yourself into. Because neither Altman or Keillor are like anything else out there.

Perhaps a description of the radio show is in order. A Prairie Home Companion--the radio show-- is a public radio fixture; an unoffensive mix of comedy sketches, gospel/Americana music, and that most archaic form of entertainment--storytelling. And you'd be hard-pressed to find a more genuinely gifted storyteller than Garrison Keillor. He has a face that reminds you of Droopy Dog and a soothing voice reminescent of a midwestern Frasier Crane. He's a skilled writer as well, and while his books sell just fine, it's hard to divorce his stories from that deep, resonanting voice of comfort that encapsulates warmth, intelligence, and compassion. He's the perfect radio star. There's really no one else like him. Keillor is to radio like Michael Jordon is to basketball.

So it's an interesting gamble to pair the storytelling strengths of Keillor with the directing skills of Robert Altman. Altman's films, when working, have been praised for their near-rebellious sense of inventiveness and improvisation. However, one does not go to an Altman flick out of a desire to follow a compelling narrative. Story, has always been incidental to Altman. Character, cinema verite dialogue, and a directing style that verges on eavesdropping have always been Altman hallmarks. He may be using the same canvas as other filmmakers, but he's not interested in using the same pallette of colors--at least in the same ways as they have been done before. It's all about finding the moment, instead of creating it. It could be argued that he isn't even making films in the traditional sense...he's making *impressions*.

Which brings us to the merging of these two disparate styles. Strangely, the movie does work in spite of these differences. But it works more as an Altman film than a filmed radio show. Whether or not that is a good thing is a value judgement depending on your preference. Keillor's best moments are when the viewer gets to experience the most undiluted aspects of the radio show... his snappy introductions, the gorgeous, heartfelt music, the gently teasing odes to radio the way it used to be--the powdered milk jingles, the introduction song to the show, etc. Altman's style doesn't overwhelm Keillor's storytelling skills, but they definitely get transmuted at some point... Not necessarily to the detriment of the film, however. For the film, it becomes a nice, jazzy duet that could only be created by these two artists.

The cast is game for the requiste improvisations, which are inherent in an Altman film. Meryl Streep gives another honest performance, transforming herself into an unaffected Midwestern mother, both vulnerable and funny. Lily Tomlin, an Altman veteran, meanders in and out of the script with considerable skill. And any film where Lindsay Lohan and Garrison Keillor manage to share an authentic on-screen rapport has got to be doing something right.

So, in the end, this is a mixed review. For fans of Altman or Keillor, I'd give it 3 stars and say, absolutely, go see it. It works. Mostly. Everyone else... Well, a Robert Altman film can be off-putting. Let's face it... The guy demands you go into the film with a little bit of patience. Meandering is putting it nicely. However, it's important to note, that Keillor, when he's on top of his game makes meandering quite entertaining. The actual radio show is enormously entertaining and is such an apex of radio programming, that it is no wonder that the film almost seems superfluous at this point. Only radio could do this type of gentle nostalgia. The movie and the radio show offer simple pleasures. They do not offer huge belly laughs, exploding cars, or sexual situations. You have to admire the restraint of any film with Lindsay Lohan that does not show any skin besides her hands and face. What does the film offer then? It offers a dry, gentle wit that is not interested in sarcastic venom. It teases as well as venerates Americana. It is charming and pleasant at a time when those two virtues are a rarity. If this interests you, listen to the radio show. If you're still interested, watch the movie.

61 Reasons I Love Movies

2006-06-26T03:07:00.000-07:00

These are numbered, but really I don't have them ranked, per se. It's mainly just an organizational device!

1.) In "Nights of Cabiria" the incomparable Giulietta Masina is hypnotized into thinking she is in love in a powerfully vulnerable scene that becomes a symbol for love itself in all of its beauty and humiliation.

2.)Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction tracing an outline of a square right on the screen in a playful breaking of the fourth wall that reminds us that movies still have the power to surprise.

3.) Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman dancing on the clouds in Moulin Rouge while Ewan sings "Your Song." And oh yeah, the moon sings along. The moon!

4.) The creepy canibalistic toys in Toy Story.

5.)Peter O'Toole going back into the desert for the one man left behind in "Lawrence of Arabia."

6.) Warren Beatty trying to convince the vultures that Dustin Hoffman isn't dead in "Ishtar."

7.)The opening credits of "Apocalypse Now."

8.)The closing credits of M*A*S*H.

9.)"Scully... RUN!" Swarms of bees mass over Mulder and Scully in a great tense and kinetic moment.

10.)Jack Nicholson explaining the Donner party to his son in "The Shining."

11.)The jazzy, irrereverent music that propels "Get Shorty."

12.)John Travolta meeting Bruce Willis in "Pulp Fiction" and calling him a "palooka," as if to serve him notice, in this meeting of on-screen movie stars, that he was a big deal way before him.

13.) Kevin Costner poetically attempting suicide in the opening of "Dances With Wolves."

14.)The last two minutes of "Back to the Future" where Doc Brown returns in the DeLorean, which can now, to Marty's surprise, fly.

15.)Robert Deniro pressuring Joe Pesci to hit him in "Raging Bull."

16.)"You shoulda looked out for me a little, Charlie." Marlon Brando confronts his brother in "On the Waterfront."

17.)That huge-ass boulder in "Raiders."

18.)The amnesiac father remembering his daughter in "A Little Princess."

19.)A really fun mudslide for Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner in "Romancing the Stone."

20.)Steve Martin conversing with a freeway sign in "L.A. Story."

21.)"You have no idea." Jeremey Irons playfully teasing his lawyer in "Reversal of Fortune."

22.)Bill Murray and the electroshock psychic test in "Ghostbusters."

23.)Jack Nicholson triumphantly reveling in the make-believe baseball game in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

24.)Jimmy Stewart's filibuster in "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington."

25.) Adam Sandler making a poor choice by going back to work too soon after being dumped in "The Wedding Singer."

26.) A bone thrown into the air by the primates in "2001" fades into an image of the spaceship.

27.)"There's no crying in baseball!" Tom Hanks explains the finer points of the game.

28.)Tom Cruise and Willem Defoe fight each other in wheelchairs in "Born on the Fourth of July."

29.)Kevin Spacey finds a way to get a nice severance package in "American Beauty."

30.)Carol Ann speaking through the staticy television in "Poltergeist."

31.)Holy water squirt guns in "The Lost Boys."

32.)"I'm walkin' here!" Dustin Hoffman screaming at a cab in "Midnight Cowboy," later echoed in "Forrest Gump" by Gary Sinise.

33.)Sigourney Weaver in that forklift walker thingy at the end of "Aliens."

34.)Michael Keaton talking into a tape recorder in "Night Shift." "Edible paper!"

35.)Gene Kelly dancing and singing "I Got Rhythm" with the French kids in "An American in Paris."

36.)Cate Blanchett freaking out when considering taking the ring in "Lord of the Rings."

37.)The fight to the finish in the attic at the end of "War of the Roses."

38.)Arthur's drunken dinner with a prostitute in "Arthur."

39.) The IKEA catalog come to life in "Fight Club."

40.)Charlie Sheen breaking down at being arrested in "Wall Street."

41.) Lloyd Dobler with a boombox.

42.)The Raising Arizona theme music.

43.)The final heartbreaking two minutes of "All Quiet on the Western Front."

44.) Julie Andrews teaching the Von Trapp kids how to sing in the space of one song.

45.)"Turn into the spin, Barbie!" Sound advice from Hamm to Barbie in "Toy Story 2."

46.)Kneel before Zod!" General Zod, not mincing words in "Superman 2."

47.)Alan Rickman reading Bruce Willis' note in Die Hard: "Now I have a machine gun. Ho. Ho. Ho."

48.)What Kevin Costner believes in in Bull Durham.

49.) Chris Farley pretending he had nothing to do with the car door falling off in "Tommy Boy." "What'd ya do??!!"

50.) The opening dream sequence in 8 1/2.

51.) The orientation film in "Being John Malkovich."

52.) "I'm sorry, I thought you were Richard Pryor." Bill Murray's explanation for dousing a waiter with water in "Scrooged."

53.)"I thought all writers drank to excess and beat their wives. You know one time I secretly wanted to be a writer." Cary Grant bantering with Katherine Hepburn
and Jimmy Stewart in "The Philadelphia Story."

54.)Joan Crawford and her theories on cooking in "The Women." "If you throw a lambchop into a hot oven, what's gonna keep it from gettin' done?"

55.)A copier/fax machine gets what's coming to it in "Office Space."

56.)Captain Kirk losing his cool and screaming "KHANNNN!" up into the heavens.

57.)John Malkovich's mantra, "It's beyond my control" from "Dangerous Liasons."

58.)Mark Wahlberg gets an interrogation he didn't count on in "Three Kings."

59.)"How am I not myself?" An existential refrain undoes Jude Law in "I Heart Huckabees."

60.)Dan Ackroyd putting a fish in his pants in "Trading Places."

61.)A hapless Charlie Chaplin is strapped into the robotic feeding device in "Modern Times."

How Much Do YOU Know About Thomas Jefferson?

2006-06-24T14:34:00.000-07:00

Not nearly enough, my friend, not nearly enough. Take this QUIZ and test your Jefferson Quotient, yo!

1.) Thomas Jefferson was the ________ President.

a. 2nd
b. 3rd
c. 45th
d. funky

2.) In 1772, Thomas Jefferson married __________.

a. Sally Hemings
b. Dolley Madison
c. Martha Skelton
d. Red Skelton

3.) In Thomas Jefferson's 2nd term, who was Vice-President?

a. Aaron Burr
b. George Clinton
c. Bootsy Collins
d. Chuck Norris

4.) Jeffeson resided in his Virginia plantation home, commonly known as _____________.

a. Tara
b. Monticello
c. Monte Cristo
d. The Love Shack

5.) It is rumored that Thomas Jefferson had an affair with ____________.

a. Sally Struthers
b. Sally Hemings
c. Harriet Tubman
d. Isabel Sanford
e. All of the above

6.) Thomas Jefferson was the main author of what famous document?

a. The Gettysburg Address
b. Declaration of Independence
c. The Starr Report
d. The South Beach Diet

7.) Thomas Jefferson founded _________.

a. the University of Virginia
b. the Church of Latter-Day Saints
c. Microsoft
d. the 1st Hooters

8.) Despite his progressive viewpoints, Jefferson owned ________.

a. stock in Enron
b. slaves
c. an SUV
d. Ann Coulter books

9.) Of his 6 children, only 2 __________.

a. liked him
b. could name the presidents
c. lived to adulthood
d. became singer-songwriters Hall and Oates

10.) Jefferson's negotiations with France led to ___________.

a. The building of the Statue of Liberty
b. The Louisiana Purchase
c. Long-sustained wackiness
d. President's day sales on all new vehicles

11.) It was believed that the father of Sally Hemings was really ___________.

a. Thomas Jefferson
b. Darth Vader
c. John Wayles
d. John Waite
D. George Jefferson

12.) As President, Thomas Jefferson suspended trade with France and England because of __________.

a. The British Navy's impressment of American sailors
b. The Great War of the Dirigibles
c. low self-esteem
d. An ill-advised horoscope reading in Poor Richard's Almanac

13.) Jefferson negotiated the Louisiana Purhcase offering only ____________.

a. 5 bucks
b. Nova Scotia
c. 15 million dollars
d. his undying love

14.) One of Jefferson's critics was a young ___________.

a. Walt Whitman
b. William Cullen Bryant
c. Rush Limbaugh
d. hobbit named Frodo

15.) In 1998, DNA evidence from the Jefferson and Hemings families proved ___________.

a. that Jefferson had the gene for "fun"
b. that Strom Thurmond had a relationship with Sally Hemings
c. inconclusive
d. that Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson both liked Pina Colodas and getting caught in the rain

Thrift Store Go-Around

2006-06-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

I was cleaning out the shed this week. This is both scary and fun. In the shed are boxes filled with a lifetime's accumulation of cool odds-and-ends, most of which you've forgotten about. So each box potentially holds treasure: old comic books, magazines, school papers from 5th grade, photos... Stepping into the shed is like entering a tomb. There's one window where a shaft of light is streaming in, illuminating the dust motes that you've begun to disturb. The musty smell of decay pervades the forgotten. My eyes quickly scan for any movement on the walls and ceiling. Because this is the shed. This is where the crawling things hang out. (I don't really like crawling things. Or things that creepth, as the Bible might put it.) In fact, it's kinda like an episode of Fear Factor. Will he put his hand in a box full of knotted milky gobs of web to pull out an old Batman comic? Can he do it? (The answer: yes. Very quickly.) Even more paranoid than me is my mom. Before venturing out to the shed she warned me (and I'm not joking): "Watch out for mice. They carry the Hanta virus." Thanks, mom... As if I wasn't skittish enough. (But I did have to laugh, when I thought of Kurtzweil in the X-Files movie talking about the Hanta virus. Well, at least I didn't have to worry about the alien black oil possessing my body. Hopefully.)
I did find lots of goodies that I thought had long been given away or lost. My Bloom County books, for one, were like running into old friends. I also found yet another box of Rolling Stone magazines. I used to collect them obssessively until the boxes of magazines started to take over my life. Then I started giving them away in admirable attempt at reducing clutter. I gave them to friends, I sold some on eBay, I donated them to thrift stores, you name it. In fact, I had given away so many, I just assumed that I had exhausted my supply. But nope, every few months I unearth another find, another archaelogical dig. I'm convinced that I'll never be without a box of Rolling Stone magazines, no matter how hard I try to get rid of them. (I came across one of my faves, the March 21st, 1991 issue with Jodie Foster on the cover. I love Jodie Foster. And no, I'm not getting rid of it.)
I had managed to weed out about 5 boxes of old crap that I knew I had to get rid of. Sometimes it's just time, you know? So it was off to the Idaho Youth Ranch, which is Emmett's only thrift store. The problem with doing this, however, is that whenever I go to a thrift store, even if it's to drop off donations, I must go in and look around. And in doing so, I end up buying more stuff to replace the old stuff that I just dropped off. This is bad. Very bad. But good. Oh so good. My favorite thing in the world is books and you can't find a better selection of ridiculously low-priced books than at a thrift store. Plus, you know...summer... summer reading... I have an excuse, right? (I can justify about anything. Especially buying books.)

Here's what I ended up buying:

Oliver Twist -- Charles Dickens. I'm reading "Bleak House" right now, but I'm almost done. I don't know if I want to do two Dickens in a row, but it'll come in handy when summer starts to wane, I'm sure. And at 20 cents, I can't pass it up.

Ivanhoe -- Sir Walter Scott. I've never read any of Scott's work. He's the only major 19th century author that I haven't got to yet. He's on my short list. 50 cents

The Pyramids of Egypt-- I.E.S. Edwards. An archaeologist and Egyptian scholar explains the hows and whys of the pyramids. Looks very straight-forward and easy to understand--perfect for a summer day. 30 cents.

Medieval Russia's Epics, Chronicles, and Tales-- various. Not sure whether to give this to Tasha, who is into this sort of thing or keep it for myself. Hmmmm. It looks really cool! 50 cents.

The Prince of Egypt-- adapted by Jane Yolen. A nice oversized hardback kids book retelling the movie. This one goes to my daughter Ivy. The thing I like about this is that the paintings are original--they just didn't slap in already premade art from the movie. Very nicely done and only 50 cents.

Michelangelo: The Pieta and other Masterpieces-- Josef Lombardo. A small, thin book focusing on the Pieta (with a few other works, like the Bruges Madonna, thrown in.) The text looks engaging and pictures are wonderful. Again, 50 cents.

The Story of Jazz-- Marshall W. Stearns. I've been watching Ken Burns' Jazz documentary this summer and it's only made me crave more hot jazzy goodness. The quote on the back says: "Man, this book tells the real story of jazz..."--Louis Armstrong. DAMN. That's good enough for me. 50 cents.

Don't Just Do Something, Sit There-- Sylvia Boorstein. I'm interested in meditation, but I can never get my mind to shut up. I'd like to learn to at least hit the pause button. Looks like a friendly, easy-going book. 50 cents.

Gorillas in the Mist--Dian Fossey. One of my favorite books by one of my favorite iconoclasts. Fascinating woman. I already had a copy, but this was a really nice edition with Sigourney Weaver on the cover. 50 cents.

Babycakes-- Armistead Maupin. When it comes to literary adventures, I like to jump off cliffs. I've never read Maupin and this is the 4th in his Tales of the City series. Here I go. Usually I don't like to read a series out of order, but I did it with the Thomas Harris "Hannibal" series and I was just fine. Looks good. 75 cents.

Bastard out of Carolina--Dororthy Allison. Good friend Shan has been recommending this one for years... Looking through the shelves, it nearly jumped out and bit me! I'm putting this one at the top of my summer reading list. 75 cents.

Total: $5.50 plus tax. Not too shabby. Now I just gotta make room on my book shelf. Some things are going to have to go in the shed...

Summer

2006-06-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm a bit early. Tomorrow is the 1st day of summer, officially.

I've never liked summer. I'm an autumn kinda guy. I always considered summer vacation to be an unwelcome jarring change in my school schedule (and my school schedule was my *life* schedule)...another example of the uncertainty of life. I'm serious. I used to feel uneasy as the calendar changed from May to June. As school finished, classmates dispersed, scattered off to vacations, camps, alternate parents in different states, the end result of divorce agreements. I didn't understand it fully--but I did understand how I was impacted. Friends I had played with during the other seasons were now gone. And now I was stuck there with three months... To most kids that's freeing... three months is an eternity. To me it was a prison sentence... A crushing, endless blanket of oppresive hot weather, buzzing mosquitoes with enough tenacity to plague a Pharoh, and the worst of all: an implacable lonliness that made one wish for entropy to just hurry up and get it all over with. I'd walk down the sweltering streets past the houses of vanished kids with a sickening churning in my stomach. It wasn't just ennui. It was everything. Everything was off-kilter. The routine I had trusted... it had been up-ended. Of course, this feeling only lasted about a week or so. Necessity invented activities for me... There was a library in Emmett, after all. But it was the ragtags... the kids like me that didn't have their summers scheduled to death... the ones left to fend for themselves...Well, we found each other-- the casulties of summer.

Denny was one of those kids. I knew a couple of things about Denny. He was from a big Mormon family--the house was overflowing with siblings--an astonishing 7 in all. And he was poor. Not that any of us cared. None of us were rich, or anything. I had no concept of money beyond how much I needed to buy a candy bar or comic book or a Mad Magazine. If anything, it made him a better friend to have. He knew how to get by on next to nothing...A bag of marbles in his skilled hands would always draw a group of kids, who quickly abandoned their electronic football and Atari to watch him play. (And inevitably, they'd all lose their marbles to him...he was the equivalent of a poolhall hustler.) There were a lot of angles to Denny. He was wildly inventive and street smart. He was unfailingly polite and loyal--classic Mormon upbringing--but he had a wild streak to him too. You could not wish for a better combination in a friend for a 13 year old boy. That nexus where loyalty and wildness converged... that was what made Denny a brother to me. He was not a good victim for a bully. He was thin and lanky, but he was strong from the endless amount of chores he had to do--everything from chopping wood to roto-tilling the huge garden his family had. He *worked*. The most the rest of us had to do was mow the lawn, take out the trash. And he could fight. He wore glasses, which perhaps decieved many a hapless tormentor into picking a fight. But Denny had a fierce sense of justice and he wouldn't back down when threatened. And he wouldn't back down when we were threatened. Which didn't mean that he never got his ass kicked. He did, on occassion, get in over his head. I remember seeing him get clocked in the nose. I retrieved his glasses which had sailed into the gravel. Blood was flowing down his face from his nose and Denny hung on tightly to his opponent, determined to go down getting as much blood on the kid's shirt as possible. He dug in and it's probably the only time in my life that I got the whole Homeric glory of battle. I understood it, for a second. (In case you're wondering, the rules of engagement were always one on one. I'd gotten into a couple of fights, but really, I'm a coward. When confronted, I demure. Denny... Denny was a lion.)

Denny was pretty shrewd as well. Sometimes justice turned into revenge. Again, Denny wasn't somebody you wanted mad at you, cause he could get you good with an elaborate practical joke, even if he had to wait months for the perfect time to carry it off. Bill was about three years older than us, which meant he despised us. We all had paper routes, including Bill. The bundles of papers arrived at our houses around 4:30. Around 4:45 me and Denny would meet up on our bikes and combine our routes, which made up the south section of Emmett. I actually forget just why Denny wanted revenge on Bill. Sure, Bill was always making fun of us, pelting us with rocks fired from his slingshot, but that was typical older kid stuff. Denny had it in for him for a more personal reason and I'm not sure what it was. At any rate, Denny had his revenge. He had me meet him 4:30 a.m. sharp. Outside of Bill's house. This did not sound good. If anybody other than Denny had asked me, I would have said no. But I owed him more than I could ever repay. I had to do it, despite any reluctance, brought on by pragmatism or cowardice. I mean, Bill was an ace with that slingshot. A real terror. On a Saturday night, he'd take out 8-10 light bulbs, quick as you please. Whatever Denny was planning, I knew that going directly to Bill's house couldn't possibly end well.

We waited behind the fence, swatting mosquitoes, and the delivery truck chugged in, stopping and dropping off Bill's bundle of papers. As soon as the truck was gone in a trail of exhaust, Denny ran over and grabbed the bundle. We both sped off, Denny balancing the bundle of papers precariously on his handlebars. We were laughing like goblins, feeling that insane adrenaline rush that only kids get.

I suggested tossing them in the canal. (The grown-up environmentalist hangs his head in shame.) The light off of the street lamp allowed me to see Denny grin. "Nope," he said and we turned down the alley that led back to his house, where he promptly dropped off the ill-gotten cache. Okay, it was somewhat of a funny trick to play on Bill... but not *that* inspired. So we stole that day's papers... So what?

The next day, Denny had me meet him at Bill's again. Same time, 4:30. I pull up, seeing Denny's silhouette moving in the dark. His shadow creeped over to the front doorstep, leaning over the bundle. In a flurry of movement, he jerks away and comes running toward me, carrying another bundle. "GO, go!" he whispers with great urgency and we pedal away, furiously.

"You stole it again?" I ask, watching him teeter on his bike, trying to maintain balance with the bundle on the handlebars. "Yup," he responds proudly.

"You know we can't steal his papers every day, Denny."

"This is the last time," he says grinning. "I switched today's bundle with yesterday. His route is going to get yesterday's papers." At this, I spontaneously burst out laughing and it's infectious: Denny follows suit. It's too much... picturing Bill getting call after angry call...all those subscribers...oh, Denny, you're a genius! Now I don't know if the sequence of events unfolded exactly as we fantasized they would. Perhaps Bill noticed before he delivered them. Maybe he caught on. I don't know. It didn't matter... we loved the idea of it. And that idea was so perfect, it sustained itself. On a morning like that, intent was enough.

Sometimes surviving summer means indulging in some good-intentioned hooliganism, disguised as justice. And sometimes hooliganism means doing something stupid at 4:30 in the morning just to be a friend. It could be aruged that friendship requires circumstances like these to truly understand the concept. These are the kinds of things I learned during summers... lessons that couldn't be taught anywhere else. Lessons like: All good things require you to do something you'd rather not. Sometimes bleeding all over somebody can be considered a victory. And if you're going to piss off Denny, you'd better get up before 4:30 a.m.

Emmett, Idaho

2006-06-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

100_0208
Originally uploaded by nakedmanatee.

...off of Main Street. Yeah, it's a bit like Mayberry.

Bridge over the Boise river

2006-06-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

100_0223
Originally uploaded by nakedmanatee.

Leaving nothing to chance...

Little is Known About Sierra Leone

2006-06-17T12:43:00.000-07:00

Look in your "bulk" mail box. Is it full of those scam artist letters where some dude in Nigeria wants to give you meeeelllions of dollars, if only you e-mail all of your personal information, bank routing numbers, etc.? Yeah, mine too. I've always received lots of those. But I love getting e-mail so I write 'em back! It's a great way to make "friends." Usually, they scare off pretty easy. (You'll understand when you see the kinds of letters that I write.) But about three years ago, I had a great, classic exchange where one determined, plucky scammer kept on coming back, despite my bizzaro replies. This is that exchange. (Note: the actual scam letters are real letters, not made up by me. My replies, though, are totally from my warped mind.)

FROM :PETER WILLIAMS
ABIDJAN, COTE D'IVOIRE.
WEST AFRICA.
BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP

DEAR,

MY NAME IS PETER WILLIAMS . NATIONALITY SIERRA LEONE.
I AM 25 YEARS OLD, STUDIED MARKETING IN BUSINESS
ADMINISTRATION IN THE UNIVERSITY. I LOST MY FATHER
YEARS BACK. HE DIED DRURING THE POLITICAL CRISIS IN
MY COUNTRY. MY LATE FATHER WAS ONE OF THE DIRECTORS
UNDER TIJAN KABBAH GOVERNMENT. MY MOTHER IS AGED SHE IS 62
YEARS NOW AN OLD WOMAN. I HAVE TWO YOUNGER ONES WE
ARE ALL LEAVING IN COTE D'IVOIRE SINCE PAST SIX
MONTH.

IT IS MY DESIRE TO WRITE FROM MY HEART HOPING THAT
YOU WILL NOT BETRAY US. MY FATHER DIVERTED SOME HUGE
SOME OF MONEY WHICH HE DEPOSITED WITH ONE GOOD BANK
WHEN HE WAS ALIVE HERE IN ABIDJAN. IN FACT IN A
BRIFE I INTRODUTION. ALL THE INFORMATION WILL BE GIVEN TO
YOU WHEN I HEAR FROM YOU. THIS MONEY TOTALING US$
12,000,000.00 ( TWELVE MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLAR)
NOW WE ARE SEEKING FOR A TRUSTED PERSON WHO WILL
RECEIVE THIS MONEY INTO HIS/HER ACCOUNT FOR ONWARD
INVESTMENT.

HOWEVER, WHAT WE NEEDED FROM YOU IS YOUR GOOD
ASSISTANCE IN HELPING US TRANSFERRING THE SAID SUM
TO YOUR ACCOUNT SINCE WE ARE INEXPERENCED IN THE WORLD
OF BUSINESS, THAT'S THE REASON WHY WE ARE ASKING FOR
YOUR SUPPORT. ALL DOCUMENTS CONCERNING THE DEPOSIT MAY BE
GIVEN TO YOU FOR YOUR VERIFICATION. WE REALLY NEED
TO MOVE THE FUND OUT OF AFRICA TO ABROAD.

I AND THE REST OF MY FAMILY HAVE DECIEDED TO GIVE
YOU 10% OF THE TOTAL SUM FOR YOUR KIND ASSISTANCE. THE
WORLD IS FULL OF BAD PEOPLE PLEASE CAN YOU PROVE
YOUR GUNUITY TO US FOR US TO HAVE YOU AS A PARTNER. SORRY
I AM NOT SAYING YOU ARE BAD PERSON BUT CONSIDER THAT
THIS IS MONEY AND HOW THE MONEY WAS GOTTEN. IT IS
INHERITACE AND LAST HOPE.

SHOW YOUR INTEREST AND WE PROCEED ON THE NEXT STEP
OF ACTION. AFRICA IS NO LONGER CONDUSIVE FOR US TO
STAY. YOU CAN CALL US ON TEL NUMBER ABOVE.

OUR BEST REGARDS.

PETER WILLIAMS ON BEHALF OF THE FAMILY.

Dear Mr. Williams,

First, I must ask you: How did you get my email
address? I have many connections and only a select
few of my inner circle know it. If there is a
security leak, I must discover it at once and stop
this dangerous flow of information. I work in highly
sensitive areas and cannot allow any such compromises.
Please, I must demand that you name the unscrupulous
individual who gave you this email address. The
security of several corporations depend upon it.

Now, hopefully, if you cooperate, you'll discover that
I am not unsympathetic to your plight. I realize that
Africa is unstable at the moment... Many Americans are
sensitive to that, including our pop stars, such as
Michael Jackson, who once did a song about Africa and
it's starving children. I get tears just thinking
about it now.

It sounds like you have a wonderful family. What are
the names and ages of your children? Do you perhaps
have a daughter? I do not want to suggest anything
improper, but I am looking for a bride and if she is
of age, and shares the same interests, such as race
car driving and eating nachos, I would definitely like
to see some photos.

What is the weather like in Sierra Leone? And where
is Sierra Leone? Do they have Starbucks? I'm sorry if
these questions are direct, but we are currently at
war with Iraq and if your country is anywhere near
Iraq, I could be thrown into a gulag by my government
just for sending you this email. If you know where
Saddam Hussein is, please contact our State
Department, as our authorities have a few questions
for him.

I must go now as today is Thursday and they are
showing "super-size" editions of Friends and Will and
Grace. But please let me know who your informant is
and I will consider helping you. I cannot do anything
until my files and accounts are secure once more.

Sincerely,

Yossarian Skinner

p.s. Good luck at your university! Which one is it?
And do they have a football team?

Dear Yossarian Skinner,
Thanks for your response indicating your willingness to assist me this
important and most valued transaction that is going to be to the mutual
benefit of our both families.
I got your contact in my desperate search for a responsible and very
trustworthy person to be my partner and asSist me in investing my money
for me while I continue my education which I stopped as a result of the
untimely death of my beloved father(may his beloved and gentle soul
rest in the bosom of the Lord).I didn't end up that way,I took your name
to my Pastor and after praying,he concluded that you are a sincere man
who will not betray me or disappoint me.He went as far as telling me
that you will reply me positively and our Pastor is a well known Man of
God here in Ivory Coast and anything he prophesizes comes to fulfillment.
I am 25 years old,single with no child.I come from Sierra-Leone in West
Africa but after the death of my father, I relocated to our
neighbouring country here called Abidjan Cote d'Ivoire West Africa with my entire
family(my old mother-62 and 2 younger sisters:Mary-23 years and
Vivian-20 years.The weather here in West Africa is very friendly:not too much
rain and not too much sun.We are Christians and don't have any business
with Iraqians.Mary's photo and mine will be sent to you when you reply
this mail.BE REST ASSURED THAT THIS TRANSACTION IS 100% GENUINE AND
RISK-FREE AND YOU HAVE NOTHING TO FEAR.
Kindly please promise me that on our arrival there in your country,you
will assist me invest this money wisely.Promise to keep this
transaction
very confidential and not to tell anybody about it for our security
here and the safety transfer of this money into your account.
Then send me your photograph,id card ,private telephone/fax
numbers,residential address and any other information that you
think necessary for the smooth transfer of this money into your
account.
As soon as I get these information,I will submit it to the bank and
give you the contacts of the bank director incharge of the transfer of
the
money into your account for you to contact him and instruct him to
transfer the money into your account so that you can withdraw some money
and send to me for us to pay our hotel bills and prapare our travel
documents to come over there to live and you assist us in investing the
money wisely.
I am sorry to respond lately because I have tried several times to have
access to this libero box without success,henceforth,continue to
communicate with me through my just created YAHOO
E-ADDRESS(peter_willi22@yahoo.co.uk).Please reply this mail immediately with all
your personal info so that I can submit it to the bank and give you the
contact of the bank for you to contact them for the immediate transfer
of this money into your account so that you can withdraw some money and
send to us to come over to meet you there in your country for me to
continue my university education and you take the responsibility of
investing the money for me and my family.
Expecting your immediate response.
Best regards and God bless.
Peter.

Dearest Peter,

Please excuse my late reply. I would have responded
sooner, but I had a doctor's appointment that I had to
keep. I am on twenty-two different medications for
various ailments, including explosive diarreaha,
flatulence, and dementia, which is just a fancy word
meaning that sometimes I see things that aren't there,
like weaseals, taking a dump on my bed, then rolling
in it. I also am taking a pill to counteract my
addiction to pills. It shames me to admit that, but
you seem like a good-hearted person and I know that
you won't hold my physical weaknesses against me.
Please hold me in your thoughts and pray to the Baby
Jesus for a cure.

While I am heartened that you wrote back, I have to
admit that I am still majorly freaking out about my
security leak. I mean, sure, it's just my e-mail
address. But who knows? Maybe tomorrow this
unscrupulous scoundrel will leak my credit card
information and my Swiss bank account routing numbers!
And whoops! There go my millions! Please tell me his
or her name so I can get ready to discipline them.

I am so, so sorry to hear about the untimely death of
your dad. Man, that sucks. I would drink in his
honor, if my medications didn't warn against it. Aw
screw it! If anyone deserves a toast, it's your
father. I raise my bottle of tequila in his honor. If
I may inquire, did he die in a mysterious tractor
incident? If so, I may have some top-secret
information that you might be interested in.

I am VERY interested in your sisters, Mary and Vivian!
Can I email them directly? Also, could you please
describe their physical attributes as well as likes
and dislikes? I know that I am being forward, but you
must understand it has been many years since I have
had relations with a woman, due to my unfortunate
physical ailments, and I am very eager to "hook up"
with someone who will be understanding of this. I
ain't no picnic to live with, especially when I'm
seeing things, but I have many positive traits. I am
a good cook, I can play the accordian, and I have the
largest collection of Trolls you'll ever see, my
friend. I am very romantic and like to sing. I
remember I used to sing to my first wife (who died in
a mysterious tractor incident)-- I would sing to her:
"You are so beautiful to me." She liked it, except
for the times when she was in the ladies room at the
mall, but you see, I'm just so romantic I can't stop
myself. But now she's with baby Jesus. I also have
lots of t-shirts with funny sayings on them.

I'm glad you are steering clear of Saddam Hussien. I
don't know what it is, but I just don't trust him.
You aren't anywhere near North Korea or France are
you? Because we are at war with them as well and you
must understand that I CANNOT do business with French
sympathizers. They would shoot me in the street.

I plan on being on holiday in Africa in November and
would love to meet up with you and your family.
Perhaps I could even stay with you? I could give you
all the proper documents then and I'd be happy to give
you business advice if you like, but be warned: I have
a hard time balancing my checkbook! :) But I can tell
you this: AOL stock is a good buy right now.

Well, I must leave you to think on this heavy matter.
I can't wait to see you and your sisters. Say hi to
Mary and Vivian for me. (Do they like peanut
brittle?)

May God bless you and keep you warm in His infinte,
graceful bosom and may the Force be with you. Always.

your pal,

Yossarian

Dear Yossarian,

How are you?
You have kept me in the dark for some time now.What is happening,is everything alright with you? May you kindly please write and explain to me your reason for been silent because communication is very important in this transaction.
Looking forward to receiving your immediate response so that we can proceed.
Yours brother,
Peter

Dear Pete,

WELL, I just re-sent my last email as it appears that
you did not get it!! Well, that's Microsoft for ya.
>big sigh<. Anyways, I am still waiting on pictures
of your sisters? >hint hint< ;) :D :D :D

I do have a troubling piece of news to report,
however. Yesterday I recieved an email from a Robbie
Williams in Uganda and he detailed *very similar*
circumstances to what you are going through. He said
that he needed my help and that the lives of his
family and pet yak depended on it. Are you two
related? He was very polite and generous and sent me
pictures of his sister, Candace, who I must admit, is
a real hottie. He is very rich, but because of a
corrupt government he can not access his millions!
Damn those Ugandans! Damn them all to hell! I am
torn between helping him and helping you. Please, if
you have any information on this Robbie Williams, let
me know. I will also pray on this.

Also, I was wondering if you knew any herbal remedies
for dementia. I only ask because the weasels are back
again. And I cannot stand their awful laughter.
Because it's just not right. It's just not right to
be laughing at me when I give them so much.

peace out, dawg,

Yossarian

p.s. You can call me Yo Yo, if you like. All my
friends do.

----------
(Note: I never heard from Peter Williams again.)

Venerating Madonna: a Top Ten

2006-06-16T03:00:00.000-07:00

Love her or hate her, it's impossible to ignore Madonna and her contributions to the pop-culture zeitgeist. She may very well be the most successful music star to be as equally known for her image as well as her music. Others, like Britney Spears have tried and come up short, not only musically, but in terms of engaging that free-floating, ever-changing pop-culture consciousness. I find it interesting that one of Britney's greatest trashy pop moments was the one where she locked lips with...you guessed it... Madonna. Now Brit's in the headlines for dropping her kid on his head, and well, that'll only get you so far. (Actually, I think she relegated that duty to the nanny. When you're too busy to drop your own kid...man, that's lazy.)

To gauge the impact of Madonna, go back to Quentin Tarantino's "Reservoir Dogs." One of the movie's most inspired bits centers around a rather ribald discussion concerning that great Madonna standard, "Like a Virgin." Tarantino's Mr. Brown character has his own (very dirty) interpretation of the song's meaning and debates it to humorous effect with his buddies. Now try to imagine them riffing over a different artist or a different song... Sure, you could make it work, but Tarantino understood that not only was Madonna a subject that everybody was familiar with, but that Madonna's full pop-culture signifigance had not, until then, been dealt with. Before that, Madonna had been sort of her own reflection of pop-culture, from her music to her videos. Now, Tarantino recognized, was the time for culture to reflect her. Her influence was so omnipresent, Tarantino seemed to be saying, that even low-level thugs were comfortable enough debating the meaning of her songs.

Madonna was ever the shrewd manipulator of her image and she knew how to push buttons. But beyond the tabloid headlines, and the calculated trashy sex kitten image, were an impressive string of great pop songs. And that, more than anything, has been the foundation of her long-term success.

And now, just because I can, here are my Top Ten Favorite Madonna Songs:

10.)Don't Cry For Me Argentina-- Okay, this one is a bit of a cheat. Cause it's not exactly what you would call a Madonna song. Patti LuPone maybe, but not Madonna. Well, until the movie came out, at any rate. In 1996, the film version of "Evita" was released, with Madonna playing the title role. In what could be called a Perfect Gay Storm, Madonna sang an Andrew Lloyd Webber signature song set to a disco beat. It was pure over the top Madonna that even inspired straight guys like me to bust a move. (It wasn't pretty. Clay Aiken's got more moves than me.)

9.)"Erotica"--In 1992, Madonna shed the previous trampy sex kitten role of "Like a Virgin" and adopted the role of Dita, sexual dominatrix. Now a pop artist using sex to sell records is nothing new. Britney Spears got a lot of mileage out of that Catholic school girl uniform. But no one (and yes, I'm including Prince) has ever done it with as much verve and imagination. When Madonna whispers to a throbbing beat, "Give it up, do as I say..." it's hard to imagine anyone saying no. And while the breaking of taboo was always one of Madonna's favorite things, the true success of the song wasn't with it's shock value. It's true success is that she made her sexual journey so compulsory. With "Erotica," Madonna did what many could not. She made a great sexually explict pop song that *was actually sexy*.

8.)"Hung Up"-- Madonna has had a rough time on the charts lately. Her last two albums, "American Life" and "Confessions on a Dance Floor" have gone nowhere. But "Confessions" gave us what I consider one of the most insidiously catchy Madonna songs ever. Okay, the song is built on an old ABBA hook, which is always a step in the right direction if you want to construct a great dance song. When it was released it debuted in the Top Ten, it quickly vanished. Had Madonna become the Immaterial Girl? Nah. Never count her out, I say. I'd stack "Hung Up" right up there with "Music" and "Vogue." The lyrics are unrepentedly dopey--the main line, "Time goes by--so slowly," is repeated so often by Madge that after about 30 refrains, it begins to take on a mantra-like profundity. (I first thought she was saying "Time goes by--so silly," which seemed to make just as much sense.) But the main draw is a relentlessly propulsive beat matched with a melody so strong it could break Andrew Lloyd Webber in half. If you don't like this, you just don't like dance music.

7.) and 6.)"Vogue" and "Hanky Panky"

During the '80's Madonna's movie sucesses could be counted on one hand. With four fingers left over. "Desperately Seeking Susan" was a modest hit, but vanity projects like "Shanghai Surprise" became Gigli-like punchlines. In 1990, Madonna found herself in a bonafide hit: Warren Beatty's "Dick Tracy." It was no stretch for Madonna. She played a slinky Mae West/Jessica Rabbit bad girl. The soundtrack was certainly a departure. Most people remember it for her classic dance hit "Vogue," but the other three Madonna contributions are Stephen Sondheim songs. Still, if Sondheim's "Hanky Panky" sounded like a zippy Broadway tune, the lyrical ode to sexual gratification through spanking had to have been written with Madonna in mind. When she belts out: "Please don't call a doctor, 'cause there's nothing wrong with me, I just like things a little rough and you better not disagree," it's hard to picture anyone being able to sell it like Madonna. (Try picturing Paula Abdul or Belinda Carlisle and the whole song just falls apart.) And, shrewd as ever, Madonna knew that even with songs about spanking to capture the public's imagination, a bunch of show tunes would still be a hard sell. Her fans were bound to be frightened and confused. To make up for it, she gave them what would be one her most enduring dance tracks, "Vogue." It was refreshingly non-controversial and proved that Madonna did not need to push buttons to sell albums...she just did what she did best: make easily accessible and fun dance music.

5.)"Borderline"--No, this is not Madonna's ode to the problems of illegal immigration. This is pre-Madonna. Madonna before she became *Madonna*. (That would happen with "Like a Virgin" when she realized she had a remarkable talent for constructing her own image, on her own terms.) The earliest Madonna hits had a light, guileless air bordering on insouciance. The songs were pleasant enough. She chirped through hits like "Holiday" and "Lucky Star" with a bouncy child-like charm. The best of the early bunch, imo, is "Borderline," in which Madonna seemed both sweet, wounded, and vulnerable-- like a kid feeling the pain of love for the first time. Her later stuff was so carefully orchestrated, that "Borderline" becomes a great example of Madonna being herself--with no affectations.

4.)Til Death Do Us Part-- A catchy and energetic song, with some dark, barb wire lyrics. It comes off of the "Like a Prayer" album, which I consider her finest. I believe when she wrote the tracks she had an obssession surrounding her mother's death. The fear that she had was that she would die at the same age that her mother did. This spurred her to write an album of substance and many of the tracks address family members. The result was a more mature-themed album and a stark contrast to the lighter material of previous albums. "Til Death Do Us Part" was easily the darkest track. In the mid-late '80's, the celebrity couple du jour was Madonna and Sean Penn. Most people today think of Sean Penn as an Oscar winner and anti-war critic. Well, in the '80's he was anti-your face as he constantly attacked photographers and gave a beat-down to anyone who pissed him off. The tabloid rags mercilessly picked over their marriage and it became something of a watercooler past-time to guess the expiration date on that particular relationship. "Til Death Do Us Part," a sobering autopsy of a song, quickly shamed anyone who had picked up a tabloid to gleefully relish in somebody else's pain. Sample lyric:
"You need so much but not from me
Turn your back in my hour of need
Something's wrong but you pretend you don't see
I think I interrupt your life
When you laugh it cuts me just like a knife
I'm not your friend, I'm just your little wife"
Before this Madonna had been a playful sexual provocateur. Her career had been based on acting out carefully constructed roles. Here she was emotionally raw and the only role she was playing was herself.

3.)Like a Prayer-- In a career of Big Controversies, this was one of the biggest. Madonna had just been signed to shill for Pepsi. Madonna was all kinds of hot, but surely it was courting disaster to have your spokeswoman be the chick who slinked her way through the "Like a Virgin" video in a wedding gown that was so slutty, Paris Hilton would have thought twice about it. Still, using sexuality to sell sody pop was no problem. Ah, but how many Clios would you get if you combined sexuality with crucifixes and a black Jesus? That's what happened when Madonna released the "Like a Prayer" video, causing Pepsi executives to break out into hives. Coke probably sent Madonna cases of New Coke as thanks. While many people remember the video, it's the song that I can't forget. From the guitar crescendo that opens the song to the swell of the gospel choir that empathically backs her up, the spirituality of the song defies whatever surface controversies the video courts. Madonna was on to something and would later explore spirtual themes on her "Ray of Light" album.

Speaking of which...
2.) and 1.)
"Ray of Light" and "Frozen"

In 1998 Madonna reinvented herself into a new persona that could only have been anticpated by the most intuitive. Marrying her melodic dance grooves with the atmospheric sounds of ambient/electronica, Madonna made good on the promise of her name: she became Spiritual Earth-Mother-Goddess. As pop reinventions go, this one was a startling left turn. But she did it with ease and she did it with grace, and even more importantly, she did it *well*. The Ray of Light album is my 2nd favorite album, after "Like a Prayer," which I saw as more immediate. But make no mistake, "Ray of Light" is the work of an artist at the peak of her powers. The aural framework of William Orbit's supports instead of detracts. This isn't about novelty. The real draw, is, as always, Madonna herself. Her voice is richer and fuller (Evita really pushed her, I think) and the subject matter is a far cry from her early eighties material. In "Frozen," she sings "You're so consumed with how much you get-You waste your time with hate and regret" and it becomes an interesting counterpart to her playful ode to greed, "Material Girl." In some ways this new direction was every bit as ballsy as making records and videos exploring sexuality. "You think you know me," she seemed to be taunting. "You don't know me." But as ever, we wanted to.

It Don't Come Easy

2006-06-15T11:20:00.000-07:00

It was called a "mismatch." It was supposed to be a cakewalk. It wasn't. I'm referring to the World Cup match up between England and Trindad & Tobago. England was definitely the odds on favorite for the match and even a newbie like myself knew who David Beckham was. (Okay, my knowledge of him was pretty much limited to the fact that he married a spice girl. I think it was Posh Spice. But it might have been Sporty Spice. Sporty Spice would make more sense, dontcha think?) And hey, England must be good if they have to fight two countries at once. Trindad AND Tobago? Wow. Impressive. To make things a bit more fair in Saturday's match-up between Italy and the U.S., I suggest we enlist the aid, of, oh, say Canada. Italy vs. the U.S. and Canada. That'd make things interesting.

While watching the game, I wasn't sure if England was just not playing up to speed, or if Trindad and Tobago was just really good. It probably was a little of both. England kinda played like an over-the-hill porn star who couldn't get it up on command. Oh sure, England dominated, keeping possession of the ball more often than not, but everytime they got close, Trindad and Tobago shut them down. And Trindad and Tobago were fierce in their defense, but they weren't able to make much headway either, despite a few agonizingly close goals. Despite the "mismatch" label, it was obvious that they came to shut down England, despite the odds. It didn't happen, but they made England work for their win. The English fans in the stadium had to be fighting the butterflies in the stomach as they watched in horror as their beloved team became so easily stymied. Repeatedly.

In fact, it was a game like this that made me realize how compelling soccer can be even if no one scores. Cause it's not for lack of trying. If you make it 80 minutes into the game and no one has scored, every minute becomes more interesting. The stakes ratchet up. The players are frustrated, the coaches are scowling and their eyes are flinty, the crowd's on edge... and so are you. You feel it and they all feel it... something has to break... it can't end like this. A 0-0 would have been humiliating for a world-renowned team like England with its pin-up stars. Of course, sometimes it often ends like that... 0-0. But those feelings of anticipation...excitement...frustration... they are there regardless because you do not know how it's going to play out.

And that's just what happened here. I disparaged England before, but in the 83rd minute, the team broke through. And it happened like all the failed set-ups before. Team player crosses to another, who takes the shot only to have it go over the net, or get blocked, etc. This time... Beckham crosses to Crouch...smooth, smooth, like a predestined arc... and Crouch angles it into the net with his head! You have to love a sport where you can make points with your head! After 82 minutes of near misses and shut-downs, I wasn't expecting this one to make it. But it does. And all of sudden I'm cheering and laughing like a goon along with the crowd. I startled the cat. The grim, stony-faced coach risks cracking his face with a grin. His face muscles are going to be sore, I'm sure. And two things have to occur for events to unfold like this. One team has to take that one step forward. And the other has to fall one step behind. You see it especially when two players are running for the ball, kicking, and one suddenly surges ahead while the other falls behind. Maybe it's endurance of strength. But I'm betting part of it is endurance of will. Those moments happen continually throughout the game, but especially as the game wears on and teams falter, become tired, emotionally drained, etc.

But it is amazing how one point can adjust the energy levels of everyone playing and watching the game. One measly point in 83 minutes and it was so well-fought for, it seems like the most dignified and glorious of victories. Not content though, both teams press on. And in the 93 minute, I stare in disbelief as England's Gerrard kicks it into the net to score goal number 2. I gasp. I actually gasped, it just seemed so unlikely that they score again, so quickly after being kept out of that net for so long. England has come alive in the last 15 minutes in a game where Trindad and Tobago have given them the fight of their lives.

Trindad and Tobago played quite well and proved themselves on the World field. They may have lost the game, but they pricked England's pride a bit and made them work for those two goals. Final score 2-nil. England advances to the second round!

Next up Sweeden vs. Paraguay

On Saturday... "Beyond the Alps lies Italy." The United States as underdog. It's going to be fun!

Damn you, ESPN2. Damn you all to hell.

2006-06-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

I am not a sports guy. I admit it. I am an English major, which does not win me many manliness points. I can tell you the psuedonyms of all three Bronte sisters, but I'm not quite sure what the point of football is. (Evidentally, it's to try and play thirty minutes of the game in a 2 hour time frame.) I've tried to get into sports. But for me the highlight of the Super Bowl was the nachos. Now, during last year's summer Olympics, I did get sucked in to women's volleyball. Damn. Now there's a sport that's endlessly rewarding. But beyond that--beyond finding a sport to get into that did not involve well-toned women in revealing outfits slapping each other on the ass after scoring a crucial point--I got nothin'. Until now.

In short: World Cup. I got sucked in. And I really don't know how it happened. Let's retrace the steps of my demise, shall we? I played soccer in 5th grade. Well, I wasn't all that great. Our entire team pretty much stank up the place. I did have a specialty-- I could kick the ball the farthest. I mean, I hit it and that ball would sail away. I even earned the nickname Leadfoot, which was an endearment...half the time, except when it was shouted derisively. You see, there was a problem. I had no sense of aim. I couldn't direct the ball... it would just fly across the park and into a phalanx of ducking, cussing, parents. But what a kick! I don't know what happened. I never played next year. I guess I found books more interesting. I don't think I even really understood the game beyond: "get ball in net." Certainly strategy and teamwork were ideas I didn't quite have down. Not to mention any sense of depth perception.

Now the other day I was watching the nightly news and Brian Williams was delivering a story on the World Cup, only the emphasis wasn't on specific scores or statistics, but instead they focused on how soccer was a world-wide phenomenon, with the exception of the U.S. It was odd when confronted with the millions of fans in other countries giving their soccer athletes the same royal treatment that we have reserved for Shaq and well, that's how bad my knowledge of sports guys is... I can only name one... Shaq. Dear lordy. So I was right away interested in this sport that seemed to capture the imagination and devotion of the entire world except us. Was there some weird isolationist subtext to all of this? Was soccer just another symbol of how we were out of sync with the rest of the world? Well, shit, I don't know, but I had managed to get myself interested in a sport by overthinking it to death! Now, we're talking! This is something I can relate to! :)

So, I checked out the various ESPN channels to see what I could make of it. They seemingly have like 548 different ESPN channels. ESPN, ESPN2, ESPN Classic, ESPN:Boggle. You get the idea. So it was really easy to find a game. I caught the Spain/Ukraine match-up. For about 30 minutes I tried to figure it out. Okay, what's the appeal. I kind of felt like a cat watching a toy on a string... there goes the ball...and there goes the ball...and look, there it goes over there! It was oddly relaxing. Come to think of it, it may have been some sort of mass-hypnosis experiment. I don't know if that's true, but I just ordered $500 of official World Cup merchandise.

Now if you look at average soccer scores it's usually something like 0-0. A really exciting game is 1-0. If you have two really good teams, it's hard to score. They will keep you from that net. In that way, it's a very existential sport. Ah, but as I was watching the game, Spain made a goal and I was immediately jerked awake. My pulse quickened. *SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED.* Someone had got through. It almost seemed like a miracle. Someone played a soccer game and MADE A GOAL. I felt adrenalized, giddy. I was suddenly glued to the screen. Half the time I watched their feet, other times I watched how the other players would converge on another who didn't see them coming. That's the beauty of watching a game... you can sometimes see what's going to happen to the players before they know it.

I began to appreciate the difficulty of the game... It requires strength, endurance, skill, and the geometrical precision of a pool player. You have to be able to visualize where you need that ball to go... and you need to be able to revise that visualization in a second as the configuration of players on the field is constantly in flux. Even more important than that, it requires luck--some have it naturally, to others it's a form of practiced instinct...and even more than that, spiritually, it becomes something that is beyond the game... Providence. Things happen, the planets align, shots open up, and they are given to you. And nothing you do can make those moments happen. You can only hope you are up to the challenge when they do.

I watched the rest of the game ecstatically drawn in, captivated by the inherent drama of *not knowing*. Of experiencing something that is unfolding. In the end Spain scored 4 points, gluttonous by soccer standards, and made the Ukraine team feel quite helpless, I'm sure. (They scored nothing, or as I heard the cheeky commentators tell it: "4-nil." You gotta love a sport that uses the word "nil.") I've already picked out a few of the more outstanding players... There's Fernando Torres who, I believe scored two of the goals. I noticed him because he's unafraid to go out there with a really bad hairstyle. It kinda looks like a mohawk, but the rest of his head isn't shaved. Or it looks like he fell asleep with his head between two couch cushions and didn't bother to fix it when he got up. Regardless, he's an incredible player.

There are also different cultural bonuses that make the World Cup a lot of fun. The commentators, for example, are British and Irish (well, the ones for this particualar match-up). It's always more interesting to hear commentary in an Irish brogue. Even if I can't understand it. It just sounds cool. And the fans themselves cheer and chant and sing in their native tongues and it just is a nice reminder that it is a great big world out there with diverse peoples and cultures who can come together to kick a ball around. There's a beautiful unification at work in this, I think.

And what of the U.S. team? Well, we lost our first match to the Czech Republic, 3-nil. Ouch. But it had to be gratifying to the Czechs. Our last chance is against Italy on Saturday. Prognosticators are not being kind to the U.S. on this match-up, but I can't wait. Cause you just don't know!

Well, back to ESPN. Four words I thought I never would say.

The Day I Fell in Love

2006-06-13T09:15:00.000-07:00

by me!

The day I fell in love
there was a rainbow
of frogs
drunkenly

croaking

In the corridors of heaven
there was the sound
of angels

sneezing

God was tied up
for hours
blessing them

In America
the stock market crashed
into a tree
DUI the papers said

But you don't believe
everything you read
do you?

The day I fell in love
the freshness dates for milk
retreated to yesterday
making orphans of peanut butter sandwiches

Couples became distant and cold
you could only see them at certain times of the year
with the Hubble telescope

Bored children played
Monopoly and hop-scotch and tag
on interstate highways just when it was getting dark

upper case became Lower case
sentences ran wild and
the streets, were littered, with unnecessary commas

And somewhere, locked in a room underneath the Vatican,
Jesus read The DaVinci Code
and laughed

The day I fell in love
I looked around, took two Advil,
and apologized

They could not hear me
over the sound of
laws passing
in the night

They had to make sure
I did not fall in love
ever again

Woody Allen's Star Wars

2006-06-12T01:03:00.000-07:00

(Note: it helps to read this picturing Woody Allen as Luke and Diane Keaton as Leia)

Scene 1: Tatooine

Luke Skywalker, a short young man in glasses, is sitting around a dinner table with his Aunt and Uncle.

Luke: It’s just—It’s just—I’m sorry, I’m not cut out to be a farmer, you know. For one thing, and this is really important I think, there’s two suns. One sun is hot enough. Two is just ridiculous. I’m out in the desert… I'm thirsty all the time. Now I know how my ancestors felt, wandering around all those years. It's no picnic let me tell you…And look, look here. (he holds his hand in front of Uncle Owen’s face) Is that a spot? It looks like a spot. I’m thinking all that sun is giving me skin cancer. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Uncle Owen: Luke, I can’t believe you! Again with the two suns! I’ve told you time and time again, you don’t have cancer! Listen, it’s just one more year…

Luke (flabbergasted): One more year! One more year! I’m out there five minutes and my palms get all sweaty. It’s repulsive, my robes start to smell. I’m getting lesions… Here, look at this. It’s rather unattractive. Not that there’s anything resembling female companionship out here. I’m thinking of joining the Sand People. They may be uncultured, but at least they get laid once in awhile.

Uncle Owen: Oy, it’s not that bad! You give me a headache with this meshuga talk!

Luke: Oh sure, right, easy for you to say. You’ve got (he points to Aunt Beru) a loving and devoted wife. I’ve got my right hand and a copy of “Prurient Jawa Monthly.”

Aunt Beru: We know you want to leave this planet and join the rebellion. To be a pilot like your father, the poor schlemazel.

Luke: Actually, y’know I’m not so sure about that. It sounds very dangerous. I mean, obviously it was hazardous to his health. I hear rumors you know, I hear they’re building a Death Star, which doesn’t sound very promising. Very negative sounding. I just want to find a planet with one sun. And thousands of horny French underwear models.

Scene 15:

Luke and Leia converse in the Millennium Falcon.

Luke: Hey, we were pretty great back there, weren’t we? You fired at the stormtroopers with your blaster and I distracted them with my debonair wit and my huge lightsaber. We were like William Powell and Myrna Loy. I was William Powell, by the way.

Leia: You distracted them all right. And don’t you think that lightsaber is compensating for something? I mean you couldn’t stop swinging it around. It was embarrassing. I thought maybe I should leave you two alone for a minute.

Luke: Oh! Oh! Listen to you…you wield sarcasm like it was the Force. I did what I could, but that Darth Vader, with the cape and the mask, it was intimidating you know, it reminded me of when I lost my virginity. Y’know, your hair looks really sexy like that, in buns… It’s very Swedish, just like you stepped out of a Bergman film. I don’t know whether to make love to you or just muse over the existential pointlessness of it all.

Leia: I think it’s the second one. The one with the musing. We could muse.

Luke: We could do both! Musing and making love. It doesn't even have to be in that order! We could do it simultanously. I’m totally—I mean I’m totally flexible here. So, are you seeing anyone? We could get something to eat… My uncle has this deli in Brooklyn—out of this world knish.

Leia: Listen, Luke… You’re cute…

Luke: I’m cute? Really? You think I’m cute? Well, I was hoping for sexually irresistible, but I’ll take cute. Cute is nice.

Leia: But there’s something about you I can’t quite put my finger on.

Luke: I get told that all the time. It's no problem. We can work around it.

Leia: No, no, there’s something about you that doesn’t seem right. I don’t know but I feel it would be wrong to be intimate with you. Like it would be against the laws of nature.

Luke: Against the laws of nature? Whew. I gotta tell you, that sound you just heard, that *whoosh*, that was the sound of my ego being vaporized. I definitely felt, a whaddya call it? A disturbance in the Force. I mean, I’ve been shot down before, but—

Leia: No, no, no, shut up already, you don’t feel it too? That’d we be doing something completely wrong—taboo?

Luke: Oh I get it. You have intimacy issues, you bring up taboo! This is so classic!

Leia: I do NOT have intimacy issues! There is something…something…incestuous about us getting together!

(They both look at each other. It dawns on Luke.)

Luke: Ohhhh! Oh my God… We’re related? You know I did feel kinda weird, but I just thought it was the hair (he points to her head)…I thought it was the hair! This is horrible. Something was making me uneasy, but then I’m always uneasy. Oh, this is just great! The closest I come to getting laid in years, and it’s with my sister!

Leia: There was really no chance—

Luke: Oh, excuse me, I’ll be right back. I’m going to gouge my eyes out.

Great Lyrics

2006-06-10T14:34:00.000-07:00

I was recently following blog links cause 1.) It's a great way to find cool blogs and 2.)Clicking on things is fun. I came across this one: Mad Below My Feet. In it, the blogger listed her favorite top ten lyrics. Which brings us the third reason I follow links to blogs. It gives me ideas that I can shamelessly rip off. With that in mind, I was inspired to compile my own list.

Being a music junky, it wasn't easy to narrow it down. Even harder was keeping the lyrics to a manageable length. Some songs inspired such devotion that I wanted to transcribe every single word right down to each singer's plaintive "ooo-ooos." Let's just be glad "Hey Jude" didn't make the list. I'd have miles and miles of "na-na-na-na's." And while this is a Top Ten list, I have to confess that I've numbered these things just because I like to organize and classify; bring order and make connections. But in reality, I can't argue that my #3 lyric is truly better than, say, #4. But lists are fun.

When you go through my list it should reveal that yes, I am a sentimental bastard and one's guy's deeply felt lyricism is another person's treacle. Some of my choices are probably going to seem painfully obvious, like say, U2, for example. Can't be helped. When a group becomes realllly successful, familiarity often has the power to diminsh the original work. Well, I feel that Bono's lyricism holds up despite its ubiquitous presence in iPod commericals, elevator music, bars, and yes, even churches. So there. :)

Here we go, here we go, here we go, now...

10.) "No Way Out"-- Peter Gabriel
"The colour in your shirt is darkening,
against the paleness of your skin
I remember how you held the goldfish
swimming around in a plastic bag
swimming around in a plastic bag
You held it up so high
in the bright lights of the fair
It slipped and fell
We looked everywhere

Don't leave us (your eyes are bright, your blood is warm)
Don't leave like this (your heart is strong, you're holding on)
Don't leave me here again (i feel your pulse, i hold your hand)
I'm not quitting on you
There's no one else
You're not quitting on us
there's no way out"

Some beautiful distinct images (the goldfish in the plastic bag, the lights of the fair) works in tandem with the sense of panic and urgency as the narrator tries desperately to hold on to a fallen lover. Whenever I hear this song, I'm *there* holding her hand too, wanting her to make it. I feel it.

9.)"Things Have Changed" -- Bob Dylan

"Feel like falling in love with the first woman I meet--
Putting her in a wheel barrow and wheeling her down the
street"

The whole song is full of classic Dylan wry asides, and this one has to be the wryest. (That's probably not a word, but the lyric is so good, I think I'm allowed.) This is why Dylan is a genius... he makes those poetic connections that are inventive, funny, and searingly true. And now I never go anywhere without my wheelbarrow. Metaphorically speaking, of course. ;)

8.) "The Red Shoes" -- Kate Bush

"Oh the minute I put them on
I knew I had done something wrong
All her gifts for the dance had gone
It's the red shoes, they can't stop dancing, dancing
And this curve, is your smile
And this cross, is your heart
And this line, is your path"

Kate Bush's pop-rock fairy tale concoction manages to reveal the darker side of wish fulfilment. The last three lines becomes a mystical possession of sorts-- dark, urgent, compelling. Like the dancer in the song, it becomes impossible not to be swayed by the combination of magic, art, and intent.

7.)"Army" -- Ben Folds Five

"I thought about the army...
I dropped out and joined a band instead

Grew a moustache and a mullet
Got a job at chic-fil-a
Citing artistic differences
the band broke up in May
And in June reformed without me
and they'd got a different name
I nuked another grandma's apple pie
and hung my head in shame"

If there was trophy for slice-of-life self-deprecating rock songs, well, Ben Folds would have his shelves full. Nobody mixes self-loathing and humor quite so well.

6.)"King of Pain"-- Sting

"There's a fossil that's trapped in a high cliff wall
(That's my soul up there)
There's a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall
(That's my soul up there)
There's a blue whale beached by a springtide's ebb
(That's my soul up there)
There's a butterfly trapped in a spider's web
(That's my soul up there)"

Okay, if there's anyone better at utilizing this type of strong poetic images into the service of a top 40 pop song, please let me know. Individual isolation plus beautifully cold natural imagery?? Sting makes loneliness sound down right scientific.

5.)"One" -- U2

"Have you come here for forgiveness?
Have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus?
To the lepers in your head.

Did I ask too much?
More than a lot.
You gave me nothing,
Now it's all I've got.."

Okay, this is the obligatory U2 reference. But the lyrics are painfully fearless and represent an honesty not seen in most top 40 love songs. And make no mistake, it is a love song, just not the kind that they play at weddings. (And if they do, I don't think they've listened to it.) The first time I heard it, I didn't really *hear* it. The second time I caught the lyrics and it was painful. Painful. Like a slap to the face. Because Bono was talking about the way we relate to each other... the desire to understand and connect, and the inevitable conflicts that arise. I love the terrible beauty of the lyric I've excerpted, but the song is, at the end, hopeful, as well as realistic. And the more we understand this emotional dance between each other, the better the chances are that we can make good on hope's promise.

4.)"Without a Trace" --Soul Asylum

"Standing in the sun with a popsicle--
Everything is possible..."

One of my favorite rock couplets of all time. Succinct and deliriously positive, it's a feel-good line that resonates because when Dave Pirner sings it, you believe it. And what a wonderful feeling that is.

3.) "Tom's Diner"-- Suzanne Vega

"Oh, this rain
It will continue
Through the morning
As I'm listening

To the bells
Of the cathedral
I am thinking
Of your voice...

And of the midnight picnic
Once upon a time
Before the rain began..."

Distinct little details create a vivid ordinary world and each one has value. But when Suzanne drifts inward, to the vistas of her own memory, the song's lyricism shows us how objects and sounds become the placeholders for emotional connections. The bells of the cathedral lead to a voice which leads to a midnight picnic that occurred before the storm. She gives us what looks like a sketch and urges us to finish-- to fill in the details, and we do.

2.)"Short Skirt, Long Jacket"-- Cake
"I want a girl with smooth liquidation
I want a girl with good dividends
At Citi Bank we will meet accidently
We will start to talk when she borrows my pen
She wants a car with a cup holder armrest
She wants a car that will get her there
She is changing her name from Kitty to Karen
She is trading her MG for a white, Chrysler LeBaron
I want a girl with a short skirt and a
looooooooong jacket."

Think Suzanne Vega with a dead-pan sense of humor and you can start to feel Cake's vibe. (Mmmm, Cake.) Basically, the band has created the best personals ad ever, giving us very specific details on the guy's dream girl. It's goofy fun and everytime I listen to it I think, "yeah, I want a girl like that too."

1.) "Wishlist"-- Pearl Jam

"I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off.
I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow still lived on.
I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on
The christmas tree, I wish I was the star that went on top,
I wish I was the evidence
I wish I was the grounds for fifty million hands up raised and opened toward the sky."

Okay, the cumulative effect of hearing the entire song does give it power, but even just sampling a particular excerpt (like my favorite, up there) doesn't diminish the impact. If life is constantly about change and flux, then "wishlist" taps into the desire to want to be a beautiful and poetic thing... Pearl Jam gives us a different idea of beauty that differs from the surface, conventional definition. A word or phrase can be so perfect it attains a beautiful symmetry. The desire to be both the sentimental ornament and the star on top is a universal desire. In this way, this stretching of the boundaries points the way towards active participation in our lifelong series of changes. If we make up our own definition of beauty, we take our life into our own hands. We become who we are supposed to be.

How to Write and Be Funny (without changing a thing) PLUS Bonus Dating Tips!

2006-06-08T02:32:00.000-07:00

Many of my friends, and yes, I do have them; often say to me, “Hey Dave! I loved that thing you wrote! That was really funny!” To which I respond, “It wasn’t supposed to be funny.” And then they say, “Oh yeah, that bit where you’re totally humiliated, and then with the tub of Crisco—” To which I respond, “That’s…my…LIFE…you bastards!” And then, of course, they laugh some more, going, “Ha, ha, that’s great when you use your William Shatner voice!” “IT…IS…NOT…MIS-TER!”

There’s an important point to that little story concerning the nature of humor. Unfortunately, I have NO idea what it is. In fact, I’m getting a little nervous here. You’re reading this expecting some sort of guidance when it comes to writing humor and here I am stalling. Well, no more stalling. Here I’m going to tell you how to make your writing funny. I mean it. Right now. Here we go. OH MY GOD! There’s a mongoose behind you!!! Our only chance is to run! Run!!!

You’re still here. You’ve seen through my little ruse. At last. A worthy opponent. Very well. Why do people laugh? Why do we find certain things funny? Where do babies come from? I wish I knew. I swear to God I wish I knew.

Sigmund Freud wondered too. In his book, The Joke and Its Relation to the Unconcious, Freud asserts that the things we laugh at are signals that reveal unconscious feelings and desires. Ha! Ha! That’s hilarious, Sigmund Freud! It might explain my unholy love of Whoopi Goldberg movies, though. I wholeheartedly recommend this book if you like laughter. Sample excerpt: “Two Jews meet in the neighborhood of the bath-house. “So have you taken a bath already? asks the one. ‘How come?’ asks the other in reply. ‘Is there one missing?’ Ba-dum-bump-CHING! Clearly, Freud had the unconscious desire to write for NBC sitcoms.
Some tips on writing funnier:

• Wear a funny hat while you write. (Hemingway did this while writing The Old Man and the Sea.)
• Have a shot of tequila every time you use an adjective
• Don’t wear pants (this only works if you writing at Starbucks)
• Read aloud what you’ve written in a “funny” Marlon Brando voice (this will come more naturally after a few shots of tequila.)
• After you’ve written something funny, write Ba-dum-bump-CHING!

But what do I write about? What is a funny subject? Well, according to Mark Twain: “Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of humor itself is not joy but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven.”

So I usually pick a subject that is inherently pathetic, such as my sex life. If your sex life is fabulous and you can’t find anything to laugh about, you need to rethink the way you’re having sex. Find ways to make it funnier, like during a climax, shout out a celebrity’s name, such as “Bill O’Reilly!” This has worked for me on more than one occasion. Or you could have sex in a “funny” location, like Sizzler or the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese. But there are many, many ways to find the humiliation, and thus, the humor, in your life.

“The last time I was inside a woman was when I visited the Statue of Liberty.” --Woody Allen

“At my age, ‘getting lucky’ means finding a good parking space.” –Garrison Keillor

Notice, neither one of those quotes is by Johnny Depp. Still, come on, sex can be pathetically funny even if you are not a schlub like me. I mean, the whole thing is a bit ridiculous. Think about the process. You basically stick Tab A into Slot B. Or if you’re feeling bold, Slot C. You might be curious about sticking Tab A into Slot D. That would be a mistake. (Slot D being your ear canal, you sicko.) I see nothing wrong with Slot B engaging Slot D, however, given the proper context of a secure and loving relationship. I mean, it’s not my scene or anything, but feel free, go ahead. But please check your individual state and county laws before proceeding. It may be something you can only do in Massachusets.

And, for a moment, consider all the crazy, weird mammalian sounds you make while enjoying a bout of conjugal rutting with your loved one. If you think I’m wrong, make an audio tape of your rutting noises. Play it back and if caribou don’t show up in your backyard, well, perhaps it’s the wrong season. Think about it, isn’t it pretty ridiculous the sounds we make? You know, all the “Whoop! Whoop!” sounds? Okay, I might be the only one who does that. Let’s move on. I’m feeling strangely vulnerable right now.

Another way to making your writing more funny is to emphasize unexpected connections between two objects or ideas. The key word is unexpected. Often humor will result from a surprise that the audience didn’t see coming. Look! A mongoose! For the love of God, it’s a baby-eating mongoose! Didn’t see that one coming, did you?

People like recognizable references. I advise throwing in lots of pop culture references that everybody will know. For example, let’s say you want to describe how your mom is crazy. Instead of just saying that, say she’s “Zelda Fitzgerald-crazy!” Hoo boy, you’ll be the toast of the cocktail party for sure! Because nothing is funnier than a well-placed Zelda Fitzgerald reference. Except maybe for a Gary Coleman reference. That dude who created “Family Guy” is a millionaire based solely on this comedy principle.

So, let’s recap. Use “funny” pop culture references, even if it’s totally inappropriate, say, during intercourse. Humor comes from pain. If you’re unexpectedly honest and share hurtful things, people will laugh with you, and by laugh with you, I mean laugh at you. Cause, hey, who doesn’t like to laugh, right? You can also use exaggeration as a means of making something funny. Like when I said I made “Whoop! Whoop!” sounds during sex, I was CLEARLY exaggerating. Ha! Ha! I would never do that. It’s more of a “Woo! Woo!” sound. And that’s not funny. See how that works? It’s like magic!! Exaggeration!

There are many more tips on making your writing funnier. But you’re just not ready. Instead, here are some tips on dating.

Tips on Dating
A great opening line is crucial to beginning a discussion with that comely veterinarian or priest. (Note: these lines work equally well whether you are gay or straight, single or married. Caution! They may be inappropriate for job interviews. Please excuse any gender bias and/or horrible stereotyping. Also, the racial epithets. I don’t know what I was thinking there! Plus, the whole bit where I compare your mama to the Predator. Totally taken out of context. Also, I may have made some rather unkind and blatantly untrue comments towards marsupials. I retract absolutely everything that I’ve written and will ever write in the future.)

Lines for Men

“Would you like to get together and exchange bodily fluids?” This type of approach is bold, shows you are take-charge, and will quite often result with a woman “giving it” to you. And by “giving it” to you I mean, she’s probably going to “give” you some pepper spray to the face.

But what if she doesn't? Something to think about, isn’t it?

“My bowels are burning with passion for you.” Women like men who are passionate about their feelings, and by extension, their bowels. She’ll be impressed by your readiness to talk about something most people are ashamed of.

“I have something tasty for you inside my pants.” Then pull a butter croissant out of your pocket and offer it to her. Women like carbs, according to Redbook magazine.

Lines for Women

“I’m into crystals. Are you into crystals?” Then waggle your eyebrows seductively. (Note: this really only works if your name is Crystal. And the priest is really drunk.)

“Would you like to go to a really wild party? A really wild scrapbooking party?” He will admire your sense of fun and will appreciate that you are not a slut. (Bonus: your name doesn’t have to be Crystal!)

For Men Only!

Do:

Lie! Women want excitement. You’re boring. Make up something extra to give your life some zing, like, say you had a leg blown off in the Vietnam War. Remember to call it ‘Nam. If she questions you on where your Purple Heart is, run away, and yell “Incoming!” Then start to cry. Women like it when men cry.

Don’t:

Date the boss’ daughter. She’s 14, you sick son of a bitch.

Have fun! That's all I got.

Ask Solomon

2006-06-06T13:02:00.000-07:00

Ye cometh plagued by many vexations; verily I say unto thee, absorb my wisdom, go forth, and despair no more.

Dear Solomon,

My boyfriend split up with me a year ago and I'm still searching for "Mr. Right." I'm beginning to think he doesn't exist. Is there any hope for me or should I just give up?
--Frustrated in Fresno

Dear Frustrated,
"This is an evil among all things that are done under the sun, that there is one event unto all: yea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live, and after that they go to the dead."

Dear Solomon,

I recently lost my job and I was thinking of dipping into my 401k. Of course, I'll pay a huge penalty for doing so. Should I do this or wait it out until I find another job?

--Unemployed in Utah

Dear Unemployed,

"There is an evil which I have seen under the sun, and it is common among men: A man to whom God hath given riches, wealth, and honour, so that he wanteth nothing for his soul of all that he desireth, yet God giveth him not power to eat thereof, but a stranger eateth it: this is vanity, and it is an evil disease."

Dear Solomon,

I'm making up my will and I was unsure if I should divide my estate equally between my children and step-children? What is a fair solution in this case?
--Stymied in Scranton

Dear Stymied,

"Yea, I hated all my labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me. And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool? Yet shall he have rule over all my labour wherein I have laboured, and wherein I have shewed myself wise under the sun. This is also vanity. Therefore I went about to cause my heart to despair of all the labour which I took under the sun."

Dear Solomon,

I'm writing because my parents are insisting on me going to an Ivy league school, but I want to stay closer to home. I feel like they're not taking my personal needs into consideration! How can I let them know that I'd rather not be so far away from home?
--Exasperated in El Paso

Dear Exasperated,

"And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation of the spirit. For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."

Dear Solomon,

Sometimes I feel like nothing matters and I wonder if I should just end it all. Are there any resources for me out there that can help me cope with this problem?-- Depressed in Des Moines

Dear Depressed,

"I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are alive. Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work that is done under the sun."

Dear Solomon,

My wife and I have a problem. She wants to use our tax refund to put a hot tub in the back yard. I say, it's high time we renovate the bathroom. Is there anyway to come to some sort of compromise? --Indecisive in Idaho

Dear Indecisive,

"And I find more bitter than death the woman, whose heart is snares and nets, and her hands as bands: whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her; but the sinner shall be taken by her."

Dear Solomon,

My boyfriend is always making rude and inappropriate jokes in front of my parents. I can tolerate it, but it's pretty embarrasing sometimes. Any advice?-- Mortified in Michigan

Dear Mortified,

"I said of laughter, It is mad: and of mirth, What doeth it?"

Butter-Churning Porn

2006-06-03T15:28:00.000-07:00

I was re-reading George (Marian Evans) Eliot's Adam Bede the way a Methodist might re-read passages of the Bible in order to get inspiration. In other words, I was opening the book up and reading random passages, letting Providence guide my hand. It was with this little experiment, I found what is one of my favorite passages in the book. Which I thought I'd share with you all. In it, Eliot describes the character of Hetty, churning butter. But the scene is full of Hetty's nascent sexuality. If anyone has an example of a hotter butter-churning scene in literature, let me know.

And they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into which a pretty girl is thrown in making up butter--tossing movements that give a charming curve to the arm, and a sideward inclination of the round white neck; little patting and rolling movements with the palm of the hand, and nice adaptations and finishings which cannot at all be effected without a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. And then the butter itself seems to communicate a fresh charm--it is so pure, so sweet-scented; it is turned off the mould with such a beautiful firm surface, like marble in a pale yellow light! --George Eliot

But of course, I might just have a dirty mind. ;)

Imshee!

2006-06-02T01:22:00.000-07:00

Hey all... a year ago I was taking the trip of a lifetime in Egypt. Here's a nonfictional recap of the emotional journey that accompanied the physical one. Hope you dig... :)

I’m thirsty. The heat is something else in Cairo, let me tell you. It could all be psychological, just knowing that to the west of me is the white-out of the Arabian Desert and to the east is the bleached horizon of the Libyan Desert, no picnic either. It’s just intimidating. I mean, I’m from Idaho. The desert to me is the Bruneau Sand Dunes where there are several drinking fountains at the rest area, all of which do not contain bacteria that would use my bowels as an all-day water park.
And I know, I just know, I’m going to get taken like the rube I am for way too many pounds. How much would a local pay? One Egyptian pound? Two? I look at the small grinning man with the stained teeth, take a five pound note out of my pocket and point to the lovely bottles of water. That one, the plastic bottle--one of the smaller ones. It’s a typical size if I was buying one from a vending machine back home, but definitely puny considering the larger bottles on display. The grinning man in the elegant beige galabiyya robes and matching fez-like hat picks up the largest bottle and offers it to me. The crystal blue label has the familiar logo of Nestle written both in English and Arabic. “Best deal, cheap,” he assures me as a fly circles his head in a desultory fashion. Evidently, the sizes come in small, large, and American. Guess who got made?
I sigh. “Three pounds,” I say confidently, holding up my five pound note. In my mind I pretend I’m one of those cops in a 70’s era TV show, offering money for information on Rico’s whereabouts. He nods slightly, his eye on the thin paper crumpled up in my hand. He takes it from me. “Five,” he says, still smiling. “This one five.” He makes the five pound note disappear, even though I can’t see any pockets on his robe. Neat magic trick, that. Cairo 1, Dave 0. Mentally, I count the remaining pounds I have in my head. I have to be more careful. Never, never, never, let them know how much money you have. Small bills, man. Use lots of small bills, just like the Lonely Planet guide said. I only had twelve hours on the flight over to read the damn thing cover to cover, twice. Of course, I used the time wisely to memorize important Arabic phrases like: fee hadsa! (There’s been an accident—perfect for the errant suicide bomber attack), imshee! (go away— an excellent phrase when being chased by wolf-packs of jeering children), and, just for fun, mumkin aradda’a hina? (do you mind if I breastfeed here?—just, you know, to break the ice if anti-American sentiment gets too serious.)
I’m hemorrhaging money every time I leave the hotel. The other members of my tour group have acclimated pretty well to the vagaries of haggling. I absolutely hate it. I’m an introvert by nature anyway and anything over three sentences of small talk with anyone eventually leads to stammering and inane observations on my part. What started out as awkward shyness as a kid has blossomed into full-blown misanthropic cynicism as an adult. I think I’ve decided that a true connection with anyone is impossible. There’s too much “me” and too much “you” for “us” to work. Sometimes I see the Unabomber on TV and I think: did he start out like this? Am I just a couple of bad relationships and a leftist manifesto away from becoming that guy? Am I becoming the Unabomber?
I try to talk to members of my tour group, attempting a semblance of “normal” conversation. My conversations with my tour group have been limited to such brilliant bon mots as “Sure is hot,” “I’m from Idaho,” and “No, really.” Being the only one in my group from Idaho has consequently not reflected well on my home state. Surely the rest of my group is recalling news reports regarding the dismal educational statistics from my state whenever I open my mouth. It’s tough seeing Cairo with a group of strangers who view you with a mixture of uneasiness and pity. I wish I could explain: the others back home aren’t like me. I’m just a lousy representative. I know that. Imshee.
Jason and Mia, the good-looking, corn-fed, amiable couple from Wisconsin that remind me of “Dharma and Greg,” are, predictably, good at haggling. I ask them if they could negotiate a papyrus sale for me. “It’s like buying a used car,” Jason confides, stressing the “ar” sound in that “Fargo” lilt. “You fix a price in your head, and be perfectly willing to walk away if they don’t go for it.” I neglect to tell him how shitty I am at buying used cars.
Despite it all, though, it’s hard not to love Cairo. Even with the haggling. Even with the constant outstretched hands, aggressively and artlessly demanding baksheesh, or tips as we would call it back in the states. It takes some getting used to. Someone holds a door for you, better have a pound or two at the ready. Baksheesh. Someone points out Cleopatra on a Ptolemaic relief? Baksheesh. Walking five feet in Cairo is an instant education.
It’s a staggering behemoth, sprawling and thick, impossibly pulsing with life despite the intense poverty, the heat unfolding in rolls from the surrounding deserts. Ra, the sun god, refuses to go quietly.
Cairo is a shimmering fantasy land of ancient stone edifices resonating with the throbbing power of one of the greatest and most influential civilizations ever to mark their time on this planet. The mixture of the modern is interwoven with a pop artist’s ironic sensibility: ancient mosques thousands of years old breathe in the same air as modern apartment buildings, rows of satellite dishes dotting the sides, all facing one direction, as if they too were pointed towards Mecca. The same buildings are draped in the freshly washed sheets hung out to dry on the clotheslines. It vaguely reminds me of something out of “West Side Story.” The familiar logos of KFC and Pizza Hut are altered, now conveying their greasy messages in the ostentatious line-curve-dots of Arabic. One has to wonder who’s culture is being assimilated here.
Our tour guides, Mohammad and Haney, point out that Cairo is the second most densely populated city in the world, right after Mexico City. The Egyptian people are working on that, Haney says, laughing. “More babies,” he promises, and the bus giggles along with him. Strange contest, I think, looking down onto the streets below, witnessing a redundancy of pedestrians, who, if you believe Haney, are dreaming of shaming Mexico City with their virility.
In a city filled with 14-16 million, you’re going to have some extraordinary traffic concerns. To get around in Cairo, people find a way. The narrow streets teem with busses, taxis, cheaply made cars from Europe and Asia, all hurtling insanely down the sand-covered asphalt. New York and L.A. traffic could be considered the epitome of Victorian refinement and civility in comparison. No dividing lanes, the vehicles race, weaving this way and that in a bizarre recreation of Spain’s running with the bulls. The masses of people not in motorized vehicles navigate their way through traffic by other means. Camels and burros trudge amiably with their carts of melons and bananas, dutifully making the trip to Khan al-Khalili, one of the largest open markets in the world. Old women shuffle beside them, balancing trays of mangos and other fruits on their heads, casually, effortlessly. It’s their birthright.
From the air conditioned bus, I look out, and then have to shut my eyes as a little girl attempts to cross the street in all this madness that seems inspired in a way by Blade Runner—the future and the past cautiously mixed with the grime. Finally, I decide I need to witness this. No need to worry, she’s skilled at this game. Her instincts—and the drivers—are in sync in a way I don’t fully understand. Maybe it’s in the body language. Maybe it’s a half-second of eye contact. Maybe it’s just the work of the gods. She pauses when one car accelerates. A bus slows down and the traffic becomes a choreographed Balanchine affair as she glides through with the flourish of a ballerina. A serenade of car horns ring out and the notes pirouette through the air. I half-expect her to do a plie when she reaches the other side. Pam, the occupational therapist from New Mexico, gives me a funny look when I laugh out loud at this traffic miracle. I consider explaining, but decide just to cut my losses. Putting abstract feelings into words robs the event of its meaning. I don’t know how to communicate how I feel without it sounding lame. And deep down, I have to consider the possibility that my singular experience might not be worth communicating. This might be my real problem, I fear.
I like Pam. As the only black woman in our group, she’s gotten several marriage proposals from random Egyptian men who assume she’s Nubian. I watched as one man tried to use her dreadlocks as a conversation-starter. “Bob Marley,” the man exclaimed and then began to sing, “No woman, no cry…” “That’s the name of the song,” she drawled, shaking her head as she walked. She likes to incorporate purple into her outfits; today she’s wearing a purple and white bandana. I get a William Carlos Williams vibe from her, but the only book I see her with is a guide to chakras. As soon as the bus stops, she’ll hesitate, with a hovering finger floating over a paragraph she just can’t leave behind. And, besides me, she’s the only one in the group that’s single. Yeah, I think she’s cute. Imshee.
“How many of you would like to have a nice dinner while floating the Nile?” Mohammad asks, standing in the center of the aisle, holding onto the railing as our driver hurtles towards our hotel with Mad Max-like vigor. “It’s a very good deal through Gate 1 Travel. Fifty dollars, American, per person. Very nice place. If enough of you would like to go…” All hands go up as the couples ooh and ah over this new addition to the itinerary. Even Pam raises her hand. Fuck. Group-think…overwhelming…me. I want to raise my hand, just to fit in. I realize that by not raising my hand and joining in, I am separating myself from the group. I am becoming the weird one. Anti-social guy. Stuck-up guy. I am cursed with a hyper-awareness of how other people perceive me. It’s like the guy on Dateline that got operated on while he was still awake, but couldn’t tell the doctors because he was paralyzed by the drugs.
Fifty dollars evens out to around 200 Egyptian pounds. I had a little over 300 pounds left and I needed that to buy this add-on visit to the Citadel, an ancient Islamic fortress dating back to 810. I had actually been kind of pissed about the whole deal as it hadn’t been listed on the website itinerary, and had only been offered as an extra add-on after we arrived in Egypt. The more Haney and Mohammad talked it up, the more I had to go. They even drove by it, those bastards, teasing us with the spectacle of the medieval dome and jutting spires. My eyes glazed over in awe. Well, I told myself, counting my money, how many times out of the year do I swing by this neighborhood? And that’s how my budget went from “not so bad” to “shot to hell” in one day.
As Mohammad counts hands, he looks at me twice to make sure that his vision is correct. My hand is not raised. I am NOT going. I mentally beg Pam to lower her hand, my one hope for some solidarity—single people united or some such thing. My brain flash-forwards through a scenario of her not going—we bump into each other… hey, you’re not going too! Imagine that! Yeah, we should have dinner together! And then we found out, wow! We have so much in common and spend the rest of our days traveling and reading about chakras and William Carlos Williams. Hmmm. Nope, not gonna happen. “Okay,” he says. “Looks like most of you are going tonight. We’ll meet in the lobby at 6:00 and Haney will collect the money.” Most of you, I thought. All of you. Except me. A more accurate statement would be, all of you are going, except for the Unabomber sitting at the back of the bus. I was irritating myself. Here Mohammad was, being nice, saying “most of you,” instead of pointing out that there was just one man out, Mr. Socially Awkward, from the great state of Idaho, and I couldn’t help but be angry with him for my own feelings of isolation. Imshee! All of you!
There isn’t one square inch of Cairo not being used. Flies fight for the right to land on your forehead. The buildings are impossibly huddled next to one another and there is an easygoing intimacy as clean and brightly-lit grocery stores sit adjacent to hollowed-out shacks with dirt floors. If there is a demarcation between social classes, it’s not to be found in downtown Cairo.
Main roads lead directly, improbably, into alleyways, all of which are fully utilized by businesses and residents alike. In America, alleyways are a distant afterthought. Here, they snake this way and that, a system of tributaries as essential to Cairo as the Nile. So, finding our hotel, the Royal Sheraton Gardens, down one of these lifeblood tributaries, a skinny, disheveled, malnourished looking alleyway, isn’t too big of a shock. If anything, my personal shock is reserved for how easily a bus as large as ours can be navigated into such a small space. I keep on expecting our driver to accidentally plow over a group of children at arbitrary intervals. Every now and then I’ll check the grill for flattened youths. You’d at least think I’d find a random soccer ball. Something!
There’s snack food in my room, but it’s not complimentary. A one-serving size bag of Funnions will set you back 20 pounds. (That’s five bucks, math fans. At that price, not nearly enough fun.) I had the foresight to pack a box of chewy granola bars, but, tragically enough, I managed to eat them all between my arrival in New York and the subsequent flight over the Atlantic. What can I say? I hadn’t anticipated just how bad EgyptAir’s food would be. I killed the last granola bar somewhere over Morocco.
Still, despite my hunger, I decide to save myself from any of the embarrassment of meeting the tour group while they’re leaving for their big dinner. Thirty minutes is a safe number and I find a rerun of “Everybody Loves Raymond.” In French! Somehow, it’s funnier.
At 6:30 I pass through the metal detectors and nod towards the uniformed duo of teenage soldiers. They stare impassively poker-faced in their crisp white regalia, hands lazily resting on their machine guns. They’re here to protect me, I repeat to myself as I walk out the door and into the alley. Just like the ubiquitous guards who follow the busses and look underneath them for bombs at random stops. The last thing Egypt wants is an American tourist impaled by nails and other bits of shrapnel from a homemade bomb. Tourism is integral to the Egyptian economy and it wasn’t lost on anyone, from the tourists to the terrorists and everyone in between. It was odd. I felt protected, but mortality was never far from my mind. Anything could happen. Before I left home I jokingly told my friends and family that if they didn’t hear from me in two weeks, to check CNN for my taped pleas for government cooperation with the terrorists. Hah-ha, they would all say, uneasily.
I walk down the alleyway with one goal in mind. I am going to find a falafel stand. And not get lost in the process. Okay, I have two goals. And, also, I hope not to create some sort of international incident. That’s three. I’m not sure how this might happen, but if anyone could inadvertently do such a thing, let’s face it, it’d be me. Say mumkin aradda’a hina to the wrong person, and well, you know how jihads start.
My heart beats a little faster as the Cairenes in the shops next to the hotel try to catch my eye. These aren’t your typical Cairenes. They’re the hucksters looking for American rubes. They’re the ones with overpriced Coke and Pepsi and orange Fanta, weird Arabic Twinkies, and stupid plastic trinkets with images of King Tut and Cleopatra, all made in China. They hover around the tourist spots, the fronts of hotels, and the popular restaurants. I get an awful feeling of satisfaction knowing my tour group is probably plowing through a swarm of them to get to their cruise dinner. I’ve learned not to say much, only a firm “La shukran!” No thanks. Much nicer than imshee. Still, the more persistent ones, usually children, follow you for a bit. Your only defense is to focus on a point and walk away, like you know exactly where you’re going. Interestingly enough, this works equally well on American children.
After focusing on a point, in this case, the main road at the end of the alleyway, I walk forward and make a right. Everything from the buildings to the cars in the street to the people spilling out from the shops and cafes onto the sidewalks and the sides of the road converge to overwhelm my senses. Lucidity melts in the sun. The heat, the rapid fire of people conversing in Arabic, and the vehicles speeding by, horns blaring, all give me the feeling that I’ve been dropped into an immense Skinner box, and if I can only find my way through, I can get my pellet, in this case a pita with falafel. It’s dizzying and scary, but invigorating too. Adrenaline surges through me and I quicken my pace. I learned in New York that the best way to avoid being hassled is to act like you know where you are going. You are Dustin Hoffman in “Midnight Cowboy.” You don’t stop for traffic. Traffic stops for you. Don’t stand around gaping, slack-jawed at the lights and the billboards, hypnotized by the buzzing of various languages zig-zagging in and out of the shops as doors open and shut. You can absorb it all later when you’re at a café.
I pass two blocks in a state of euphoria, breathing in the novelty and wonder of the new. Then it hits me. The danger in acting like you know where you’re going, is that it’s that much easier to get completely, hopelessly lost. I turn around and look for my alleyway only to discover it’s been swallowed up by the massiveness of Cairo. There are no familiar visual markers. There is no frame of reference. I look for a street sign. I find one. And another. And another. All of them in scribbly lines of Arabic that resemble Morse code written out by a drunken sailor on shore leave. Meaningless to my Western eye. Two blocks. I’ve only gone two blocks. I’m going to be okay. It’s just two blocks.
Pressing forward, I begin to mentally check off meaningful landmarks. Green phone. I’ve just passed a green phone. A toy store. With bicycles. A store with a sun-wilted poster of a can of mango juice. Another green phone. Wait a minute. And that’s when I realize…there’s a green phone on every corner. I blink the sweat out of my eyes and hope that I don’t look as panicked as I feel.
At this point I recall something I had read in a guide on writing, by comics auteur Alan Moore. Encouraging timid writers to take chances, he advised them to “jump off cliffs” and to “knit yourself a helicopter” before you hit the ground. There’s a certain insane magic to those words, I always thought, and now I had the chance to test their validity. I couldn’t be that far away. What kind of complete idiot would I have to be to not be able to locate a falafel stand in the heart of Cairo? No, I have to push forward. I would jump off a cliff and worry about knitting myself a helicopter later.
A feral-looking dirty-white kitten runs down an alleyway. For some reason I follow. I pass what looks like an Egyptian version of Wal-Greens. If there is a sidewalk, it’s misplaced. Perhaps an excavation might locate it, I thought. The crumbled husk of a building is haunted by kids, darting in and around blackened pillars, contestants in the universal game of hide and seek. One little boy, a lousy hider, tries scrunching behind a rock and when he is immediately caught, lets out a howl of indignation. I smile, because my son Chazz used to do that when he was younger. A few of them stare curiously at me as I walk past. Unexpectedly, I wave. In my suitcase, back at the hotel, I had packed a plastic Albertson’s sack with an assortment of Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars to give to kids asking for baksheesh, but I had forgotten to bring them with me for this excursion. If I had them, I’d give them the whole bag. I want to give them the whole bag. The little one, the howler, stops howling, looks at me and waves back. He’s the only one that does this.
Across the alleyway, there is a hole-in-the-wall café with a couple of plastic tables and chairs. The smell of earth, like the potatoes under the sink back home, combine with the smells of frying oil and tobacco. A thin, mustached man in an apron, dotted with stains, sits in one of the chairs, watching me approach. An old woman is behind the counter, looking at me intensely. The man takes a drag from a sheesha water pipe, a contraption that resembles an elaborate bong. It has a hose connected to it, kind of like an oxygen tank. If you tilt your head, it could pass as a George Lucas droid. R5-Huuka. Behind him is a reader board that, from the way the Arabic lines are arranged reminds me of a menu. There is a line-dot-dash-curve, then white space, then, a couple of symbols sequestered clear to the right, off by themselves. Item... price? A picture of a fried, brownish-green falafel wedge cements it. Howard Carter, discovering Tut’s crib, couldn’t be any giddier.
The man gets up and crushes his cigarette out on a small metal lid. Inquisitive eyes meet mine. Something tells me tourists usually don’t find there way down here. He says something to me in Arabic. The tone of his last word ascends slightly higher than the other words. His eyebrows rise, trying to pull a response out of me. A question. He’s just asked me a question.
“Uh…” I grin stupidly. There’s something ironic about an anti-social English major unable to communicate through speech or writing. Someday, this will make one of those funny anecdotes that people send in to Reader’s Digest. “I… I’m sorry,” I say, and truly mean it. I’m dyin’ here. “I don’t know Arabic. I’m…” Stammering. That’s what I’m doing. And making a jack-ass out of myself. Finally, I figure out that I have a tremendous visual aid to help me.
Pointing towards the poster, I ask, “Falafel?” My voice and face become a parody of inquisitiveness. As I smile and raise my eyebrows, I feel like I’m doing charades. And if you think it’s easy, you try “acting out” falafel.
He chirps back smiling, “Falafel!” I think he’s figured me out. “Ta'amiyya,” he intones. “Falafel...ta’amiyaa.”
“Ta’amiyaa...” I repeat, nodding excitedly, and we erupt into laughter.
He mumbles something in Arabic and looks at me expectantly. I squint my eyes to indicate confusion, brain hurting, but I stop after self-consciously realizing that I might instead be conveying disgust. “I don’t understand,” I carefully enunciate, knowing full well that that’s not going to help matters.
His eyes light up and he holds up his right hand. “Falafel,” he starts, then extends his index finger. “One…two…three…”
“Oh! Numbers! Three! Three falafel!” This is the freakiest Sesame Street episode ever. The Count would be so proud.
He laughs and shouts something to the old woman and she reaches into a gray ceramic bowl and starts to knead the falafel paste. Thick, weathered fingers shape the fava bean paste into perfect circles with the skill and precision of an artisan. She sings to herself and drops them in the frying pan, the oil popping and snapping like firecrackers.
The man points towards his chair and motions me towards it. I hesitate. If I could communicate in English how awkward I feel taking somebody’s chair I would. “No thank you,” I would say, then run away and get my own chair. Far, far away. In a basement somewhere. As it is, I don’t have that option. “Shukran,” I say, nervously, taking the seat offered. I feel like such an imperialist. He smiles back, pleased that I’ve taken it. And it’s okay. I’m okay. It occurs to me that I’ve stumbled onto a basic and elemental truth: sometimes people really do want to do nice things for each other.
I sit there trying desperately to maintain my sense of awkwardness. I’m not used to being at ease with anyone. It’s odd. He’s standing next to me, trying to determine, what, if anything, he should say. My inner neuroses rally: Leave now… you’ve had an interesting experience… You know there’s only embarrassment ahead… You know that, don’t you? When have you ever been good at talking with anyone? Do you really think you won’t screw it up? Shit. How did I get so good at sabotaging myself? There’s a hotel room and I belong in there with the doors locked and the lights turned off. What the fuck am I doing here halfway across the world thinking I have the right to tramp down this dirt alley looking for what…someone to talk to me? In Arabic?
“Mustafa…ismee…Mustafa,” he says, pointing to himself. “Ismee?” he says, expectantly, then waits for an answer.
Name…ismee is connected to name. His name is Mustafa. “David…ismee…David,” I say tentatively, unsure of the proper usage of ismee. However it’s supposed to be used, I’m close enough. Mustafa laughs and extends his hand.
“David,” he says. “Mustafa.”
I take his hand and shake it. “Mustafa,” I repeat with a bit of wonder in my voice. Just like that. A piece of a puzzle that I didn’t know I was trying to solve. Mustafa. Ismee.
“Cairo…” Mustafa starts, then halts, trying to think of the words. “Cairo…” he says leadingly, then gives a thumbs up, and follows it with a thumbs down. I may not know Arabic, but I know my Roger Ebert.
I grin, thrusting my thumb in the air empathically. “Cairo… very fine,” I say, using a word I had heard Haney favor. “Very fine,” I repeat and Mustafa grins in return, pleased. A few seconds of silence and he asks, “America…” Eyebrows go up as he offers me the thumbs up or thumbs down choices. Unbidden images of Lindy England pop into my head. Gah! That isn’t America, is it? I think of school kids offering their lawn-mowing money to tsunami victims. Sometimes people really do want to do nice things for each other. I hold out my hand and tilt it back and forth in a tee-totter fashion, the universal sign for so-so. Mustafa’s expression is blank and muted. A few seconds lapse. Then he closes his eyes and roars with laughter. I can honestly say that here, in a city which has robbed me of speech and written language, I have connected with another human being.
We shake hands again. “Shukran, shukran,” I intone, taking the bag of falafel. It was nothing—30 piastres, about one third of a pound. Reaching into my pocket I pull out a five pound note; I have nothing smaller, but I want him to have it. Baksheesh. As I hand it to him, his hands go up and he shakes his head while smiling. “La, la,” he says and it reminds me of music. I blink about a dozen times. Stunned, all I can say is “shukran.”
The group is getting back. The bus has screeched in, no victims yet. Truthfully, I think the bus driver is merely showing off. “See what I can do with a bus? Could you do this with a bus? I don’t think so!” It’s a matter of pride. He’s good. I think I’ll tell him before the trip ends. “You are a good bus driver,” I will say. “American bus drivers could learn from you.”
From the comfort of the lobby, I sit, and watch the group go through the metal detectors, chatting up the highlights of the evening. It’s weird. I don’t feel like running away. There’s a hotel room somewhere and I don’t belong in it right now. I belong here, with people.
Ismee David. I want to talk.

Well, That Makes Sense...

2006-05-31T15:16:00.000-07:00

This photo, while hilarious, is not from a real church. Fake, I'm afraid. I cribbed it from Hollywood Elsewhere (check my links list). Made me laugh tho'!

For more fun go to the guys who made this possible... Church Sign Generator.

Thrift Store Madness

2006-05-30T21:36:00.000-07:00

Sometimes friends or people I don't know send me fun e-mail questionaires. You know the type. What song do you sing in the shower? If you had three wishes, what would they be? and my favorite: When are you going to pay off your student loans? (Side note: probably when I get my three wishes.) Anyways, the point of this intro is to segue seamlessly into the question that I always find it a cinch to answer: What are your favorite things? And right at the top of the list would have to be Thrift Stores. Yeah, you heard me right. Thrift Stores.

The winning concept behind thrift stores is so simple and endlessly rewarding. They sell anything. For next to nothing. You can't go into a thrift store expecting to get a specific item. This isn't like going into Target. It's shopping as a Zen experience. The merchandise is what it is and you never know what it is until you find it. (There are exceptions to this as there are certain perennial thrift store favorites. For example, I'm betting if you want a copy of Gail Sheeney's Passages, any thrift store in America could accomodate you. Plus, if you're not picky about specific titles, I know that there are at least 4 or 5 different John Grisham thrillers at any given thrift store. There also seems to be an abundance of Susan Powter merchandise.)

I go in mostly for books, being the shameless bibliophile that I am. It thrills me, makes me giddy even, when I go into a thrift store and find classic titles by my favorite authors. Steinbeck, Hemingway, Angelou, Marquez, all to be had for pocket change! It's a beautiful thing to think that the greatest books ever written are this accessible. A truly wonderful find is a book that has been endlessly careworn with notes and scribbles and underlined favorite passages. Some people hate this as they like to make their own notes. While I understand this, I believe that this is why they made different colored highlighters. I love not only taking the journey that reading affords, but to take it parallel to someone else, to have a fellow traveller to share insights with. It's incredibly intimate to read Walden through someone else's eyes, discovering what passages moved them, what lines deserved an empathetic double-underline.

Sometimes I get the bonus of finding old pieces of paper with writing on them, tucked inside as bookmarks, or even the original reciepts. Reciepts are precious because, if they're not too faded, they reveal the time and place it was purchased. Who was this person who bought this old paperback of The Mayor of Castorbridge at a place called Book Sellers in Redding, California on Oct. 19, 1996 at 14:56?

And therein lies the germ of the thrift store experience... The experience is a shared one, between you and the person that, for whatever reason, has parted with their stuff. It's not just the books that fascinate me, either. I love the idea of a store devoted to stuff that nobody wants anymore. One of my most prized possessions is a mug that says "I Shot J.R." There's something kitschy about it now, so anachronistic. I get a thrill drinking coffee out of it, knowing it's weird and rare and interesting, and that no one else could probably appreciate it as much as I do.

One of my favorite parts of the store are the aisles with the discarded trophies. Every kind of trophy litters the shelves: Baseball, golf, billiards, and, of course, bowling. I imagine each one at some point being the utter focus of pride and well-being... now abandonded. People move on, it's true, which makes me ponder an even greater mystery. Who would buy someone else's icon of accomplishment? Well, who else, besides me? I've often thought of buying a whole series and trying to convince people of my sporting prowess. "Why yes, I was on the 1973 Scranton Women's Bowling League. We came in third that year. But that was just a warm-up for my softball success in 1979..."

When I travel to a new city, the first thing I do is scout out the thrift stores. (Utah thrift stores kick ass, especially for their selection of hideous Mormon mommy clothes. Ye gods, they should charge admission.) The more run-down the better... you get a flavor for the community by taking in their thrift stores. And really, to me, that's the whole point of travel... to experience something other than what you are used to... and what better place than a thrift store... In one specific, intentional space, you absorb experience, history, culture, art, society, and adventure. Because each trip is a loosely arranged contract... Your tour guide is incredibly hands-off... It's up to you to discover what's out there.

Musical Language

2006-05-29T21:31:00.000-07:00

I've just started to become addicted to podcasts via iTunes and I discovered one of the most fascinating programs. My discovery of cool podcasts is a pretty random affair; I'll just click on stuff that looks interesting and then listen to them later either on walks or at the gym (did you know that gym means naked? LOL, just a random aside.) I was on a walk (fully clothed, thank you very much) and began to play a podcast originally broadcast on WNYC public radio. I'm a big public radio fan, so this seemed like a good choice for blind downloading. The particular segment was from their RadioLab program, entitled "Musical Language." It's fascinating... I was mesmerized listening to it, and I kept walking further than I was going to go because I was so lost in it. I won't go into too much detail cause it's best you listen to it yourself, but essentially they discuss how music is related to language and why music makes you feel. Great stuff.

Check out RadioLab. They have their downloadable podcasts available there. It's a trip.

Don't You Forget About Me

2006-05-29T13:42:00.001-07:00

You might not recognize the name Paul Gleason. But I bet that if you grew up in the '80's you'd remember the face and voice. Gleason was the guy who played the scary principal from hell in "The Breakfast Club." He died on Saturday, at 67, of lung cancer. As I read the news at the Internet Movie Data Base, I kept on thinking of his movies and how much I always loved that guy who was so good at playing an a-hole. And yes, that's a compliment. Acting is not *being* and it requires a certain skillful observation. For whatever reason, Gleason was adept at playing smarmy, but funny authority figures-- guys determined to be right at the expense of our heroes. He tapped into something there that has almost become a character type, the authority figure who does not deserve his authority, and abuses it. (Remember Paul Reiser's oily executive in Aliens? Same thing.) It is a credit to Gleason's talent that he was able to identify those traits-- the misplaced confidence, the self-assurance, and utter lack of empathy mixed with delusions of grandeur-- that resonated when viewers saw his villains. We knew those characters... we've had to put up with guys like that. Gleason gave us an outlet, a way to recognize those everyday types of villains, and laugh at them.

Gleason perfected that arrogant bluster, standing out in movies like Die Hard and Trading Places. Remember his a-hole detective character who spitted out classic rude lines of perfection like: "We're going to need more F.B.I. guys"? Or how about in The Breakfast Club where he exerts his authority by warning the kids: "The next time I have to come in here, I'm cracking skulls!" It was a funny line because it was so overblown... I mean who hasn't had a tough-talking authority figure try to use bluster and swagger to intimidate? I remember laughing at Gleason's line, and yet... I could see him doing it too. There was something laughable and something to be feared in his Principal Vernon character and Gleason found both the humor and seriousness.

I don't think I'll ever forget those characters, and I certainly won't forget that Paul Gleason is the guy that brought them to us. Paul, I raise my glass to ye.

Books: I Got 'Em.

2006-05-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

And they're on the shelf. And the floor. In the bathroom. On the desk. In boxes. In bags. Some of them are weathered and worn from multiple readings. Some of them are forgotten and lonely, effusively purchased, then quickly buried under something else deemed more relevant or captivating. Some have multiple, utilitarian uses, like the massive dictionary that also serves alternately as a doorstop and a weapon with which to destroy spiders in an apocalyptic fashion. (Whoever said 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,' has obviously never had a ten-pound dictionary land on their head. The English language can be such a blunt instrument.) Some books that I've had I no longer can find... They've vanished... lent to friends of a different era, no forwarding address or phone numbers to track them down. (What does it say about me that my primary concern is the reunion with a particular book and not a person?) Some have been donated to thrift stores to make way for other books purchased at thrift stores. And some... well, some simply aren't there and I have no explanation for it. Book fairies, no doubt, exercising their right to flitter away with my long-vanished copy of Invisible Man. (Fairies have a sense of humor, I'm told.) But, in a way, those books are still around, taking up space on the shelf found in the dream corridor of my mind. To wit, I don't own these books... they own me.

These thoughts were going through my head as I was lazily drifting over the somewhat bizzare hodgepodge of titles cramming my book shelf. I wondered what a stranger might think looking over this eclectic assortment. A pristine hard-back edition of Swann's Way was spooning next to a beat-up, withered, coverless copy of Stephen King's The Stand. Ascetic tomes relegated to academia, such as Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams, leaned up against immediate pop art thrills, such as The Green Lantern Archives. The odd coupling of old TV Guides and Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White mystifies even me on occasion.

It is with that in mind, that I'd like to do a new feature on the blog, entitled: Dave Looks at His Books. I'm going to pull a few books out at random and write about them. Not in a lit crit kinda way, but just in a weird, first impression kinda way. I fully anticipate this becoming a hot new party game...The next time you're at a party, find out what books the host has and use that to launch conversations. This should be better than charades! (Note: this game requires at least two to three shots of tequila before the "fun" actually begins.)

Okay, tequila ready? Here goes. My first book is The Green Lantern Archives, in particular, Volume 3. This book collects issues 14-21 of the original silver age Green Lantern series, one of the most fondly remembered silver age comic books. These were originally published in 1962-3. For those of you who have no knowledge of Hal Jordan, Earth's Green Lantern, let me enlighten you. The mysterious Guardians from the planet Oa bestow a green, magic "power ring" upon the bravest individual in a particular sector. Once this individual accepts the mantle of a Green Lantern, they use its power to fight evil, both mundane and cosmic. Our hero, Hal Jordan, is a cocky test pilot who is chosen by the Guardians to be Earth's Green Lantern. The ring's powers seemed to have changed over the years, depending on the author's interpretations. The ring's energy is driven by will power and imagination, making it a vague, ephememral kind of super-power. In one panel Hal might use it to make a green cage to trap his foes. In others, it's simply a blunt energy beam that knocks his evil counterpart, Sinestro, back into space. In one sequence, Hal actually uses it to shrink Sinestro and put him in a minature cube, so he can carry him around in his pocket. Freaky, I know, but back in the 50's and early 60's there seemed to be a lot of stories that involved shrinking.

My favorite issue is #16, "The Secret Life of Star Sapphire." Most DC comics of the time were quite often based on the Superman formula of relationship conflict and nowhere was this more apparent in the idea of a super-hero trying to maintain a double life. Hal Jordan's love interest was Carol Ferris, a Lois Lane type. She's in love with Hal, but also strangely attracted to Green Lantern. As she's engaging in a test flight, she thinks to herself: "It's really too bad I can't make up my mind to marry him! But the trouble is there's somebody else! If I really loved Hal, I wouldn't feel the way I do toward this other person!" Namely, Green Lantern. This sexual confusion would be a long-running motif in the comic.

Her flight is abruptly aborted as she is abducted by a race of otherworldly amazons. Or as they are called in the comic, Zamarons! The Zamarons explain to Carol that they are a race solely of women who have chosen her as their queen. She demures, not wanting to leave Earth because it would mean a life without Hal or Green Lantern. The Zamarons, seemingly a race of pro-active lesbians, are, understandly, put out with Carol's devotion. "Then it is because of a man-creature that you do not wish to come with us?" a Zamaron exclaims, exasperated. Finally, they strike upon what seems like a good resolution. They will give Carol super-powers, like Green Lantern. She'll go back to Earth, defeat and humilate him. Then she'll realize what a waste of time it would be to invest so much loyalty and affection to this impotent and ineffective man-creature. They begin the power-transference ceremony by playing a magical pipe organ. (No, really.) As the power flows to Carol, she murmurs, "Energy from the organ... streaming through my body..." I don't have to channel Freud on the Ouija board to figure out that something else is going on, perhaps unconsciously, but definitely symbolically as the Zamarons manipulate their mystical organ to infuse Carol with their energy. When the process is complete her normal, conservative attire is replaced with a skimpy swimsuit-like sapphire costume, complete with face mask and knee-high boots. She is now called Star Sapphire. (I suppose nicknaming her Sappho would be going to far.) ;) The Zamarons give her a mystical jewel similar to Hal's magic ring. Her energy color is sapphire, opposed to Hal's green. She doesn't want to fight Hal, but because of the Zamaron's magical organ device, she feels strangely compelled to adhere to their wishes.

Newly empowered, she is transported back to Earth to do battle with the Emerald Avenger. She engages him in a series of battles, drawing him out in one instance by robbing an art museuem. All the while, she remains conflicted by her suppressed sexual confusion. Before she met the Zamarons, she was already confused between her longing for Hal and Green Lantern, not realizing that they were one and the same. Now, with the energy of the sapphire coursing through her, she is divided by her devotion to Green Lantern/Hal and the new-found desire to fulfil her destiny as a Zamaron.

When GL inevitably finds a way to defeat her, Carol thinks to herself, "I'm defeated! How terrible... No! How wonderful!" Even in the end, her feelings have shifted. She is left irrevocably altered by her encounter with the Zamarons. Her burgeoning sexuality, left confused by the duality of GL/Hal, is given another outlet, that of Star Sapphire, who, as queen of the Zamarons, could live among them, enjoying the benefits that came with being their supreme ruler. Star Sapphire is inarguably a more sexualized version of Carol, made evident by the skin-tight fantasy costume that she wears. Her power, a sapphire beam, is used in several instances to attack Green Lantern, and, you could argue that this release has, in effect, become a sort of sexual frustration made manifest. She's not only confused, she's pissed at the various barriers between her and her goals.

I love this story because while I sincerely doubt that the ideas of sexual identity were deliberately interwoven in the text, I have no doubt that the comic was tapping into a kind of sexual subconcious that was roiling just underneath the surface of America circa 1962. These adolescents who were reading these comics would, by the late sixties, overtly attempt to answer these questions. From the hippie culture to free love to issues of sexual identity, gay pride, and feminism, these ideas were there as a subtext and, "The Secret Life of Star Sapphire" could possibly hold, within its text, pre-indicators of a changing zeitgeist.

And if you don't agree with me, you obviously haven't had enough tequila.

Previews: Superman Returns & Click

2006-05-26T23:02:00.000-07:00

Attached to MI:3 were a few trailers of note. Those who know me, know I'm a rabid comic book junkie dating back to pre-colonial times and I've been eagerly awaiting both X-Men: The Last Stand and Superman Returns. The X-trailer looked pretty spiffy, but I've been wary because this latest (and supposedly final) installment featured a new director, Brett Ratner (the Rush Hour movies), taking over for the previous one, Bryan Singer. Singer passed on X-3 to do, you guessed it, Superman Returns. X-Men: TLS was actually released today, and the current critical consensus is: not bad, but not as good as the first two. Lots of slick action, but none of the heart of the first two films. Being a dutiful X-Men fan I'll check it out, but most likely will wait for a cheapie theater to do so.

I geeked out over the Superman Returns trailer. The new guy Brandon Routh not only looks like Superman, he does a decent Clark as well... which to me means that the filmmakers get the duality of the character. (Much of the success of Batman Begins, imo, is that the filmmakers understood what Bruce Wayne was about as well as Batman.) If you don't understand what makes the character work, you have no business working on the character. All the iconography is dead-on from the Daily Planet to the Fortress of Solitude. And Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor? Casting doesn't get any more perfect than that. What really sold me was when I heard the familiar strains of that powerful John Williams theme. Yup, they used the same music that worked so well in the 1978 Superman film. In fact, director Bryan Singer has stated that he means this to be a direct sequel to Superman I and II, just forgetting 3 and 4 all together. Smart guy.

The trailer for Click both intrigued and appalled me. It definitely looks like one of those awful high-concept, lowest common denominator comedies. Adam Sandler has a magic remote control that allows him to control his universe. You would think he would use it to reverse time to stop the filming of "Little Nicky," but alas, no. Instead he uses it in ways that only people in movies would use it for. For example, he uses it to pause his boss so he can slap him around. (It's not that inspired of a joke, but it does win points for hiring David Hassellhoff as the boss in question, thus fulfilling a common fantasy of many viewers.) It's definitely tailored to Sandler's core audience, sports lovin', bear-drinkin' GUYS. Sandler, not totally oblivious to marketing demographics, knows who his audience is, (exhibit a: The Longest Yard), but even this seems a bit obvious. I can imagine the script development... "What do guys like... They sure do like the remote! What if it was a...magic... remote!?" This type of shameless pandering reminds you that the majority of mainstream films have become market-driven and creatively bankrupt affairs. I understand, profits are goooooood and Hollywood is merely being reactive to the kinds of things people pay money to see. But this type of thing appears particularly manipulative and condescending in a way. The joke is, of course, that the target viewer would never realize that he was being condescended to.

BUT, I hold out hope. We'll see how it fares with critics when it is released. Part of the trailer shows Sandler with his remote, using it to fast-forward through parts of his life that he doesn't like (i.e. arguments with his wife, again, fullfilling a typical male fantasy). Then, somehow, the remote starts freaking out and fast-forwarding on its own, causing Sandler to miss parts of his life that he doesn't want to miss out on. This led me to believe that Click could somehow be some sort of existential comedy in the vein of Groundhog Day, examining how the bad moments and the good moments are connected to create a full life. Maybe that's what this movie is about.

Probably not.

Writing Preview (Work In Progress)

2006-05-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

Here's the (very rough) beginning of a story that came out of my writing workshop. More to come, swear... :)

Just Like You
by David Scott

Malcolm Landry, nervous at all times except when he was hiding behind a podium, reached into his pocket, feverishly, sweat forming on his brow, between his fingers, and God knows where else, and fingered his pocketknife. He thought about using it, wanted to use it, but, being surrounded by the throng he couldn’t. That was one of those inappropriate activities. In-appro-pri-ate, a voice sing-songed inside his head. “Shut up, already,” he whispered underneath his breath.

“Excuse me?” the girl asked, her smile an infuriating mixture of sweetness and intractability. She didn’t walk up to him, she glided, her hand outstretched. She actually zeroed in on him like a Scud, wanting to shake his hand. Everything about her seemed to be a portrait of symmetry. Malcolm sized her up. She looked old enough to drink (just barely), but she didn’t look like some college-age kegger enthusiast. Oh, no, that would be too easy. Her hair was blonde, smooth, and shoulder-length—a real shampoo commercial. She wore these nutty black granny glasses complete with a nylon cord from one end to the other. Her skin was unblemished and she wore minimal make-up. It was a testament to her awareness of her aesthetic charms. Too much make-up would just be showing off. Contacts, or God forbid, normal frames, would be pushing it. Artsy, ironic frames proclaimed to the world that yes, she was much more than her stunning good looks. Her ecru blouse featured a pink ribbon pinned just above her right breast, which infuriated Malcolm because he was sure it was some sort of feminist trap to draw his attention to her chest. Her skirt was a black and white checkerboard print that reached to her knees. She wore stylish black boots with a modest heel. And somehow she glided in them. All to shake hands with *him*. To prove what? That she wasn’t some Banana Republic mannequin? That she believed in charity and good works? Malcolm recoiled, his heart pounding. It was just too much. He wished she didn’t look so nice, so well-adjusted. Then at the very least, it’d be easy to dismiss her as yet another stuck-up sorority bimbo.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked, finally releasing her smile. Malcolm waited a few seconds and looked impulsively at his watch. Her hand was still outstretched. He shook it limply and quickly released it.

“I, uh,” he said, looking at her earrings. They looked like little wind chimes. Little turquoise wind chimes. They so did not go with the outfit. They looked horribly tacky, actually. Must of have been a gift. He smiled, feeling more comfortable that he had found a weakness. She was human after all. “I like your earrings,” he managed.

“Oh, thank you,” she smiled, her thin fingers brushing up against them. “My boyfriend—I mean, my fiancé—bought them for me. I got to get used to saying that. Fiancé!” Her eyes drifted shyly away from Malcolm as she realized she was offering too much personal information to a man she did not know. He surely didn’t care about her upcoming nuptials.

He did care. It sickened him, in fact. He realized that a pretty girl could not possibly have any interest in him; he realized that and accepted that. Still, did females have to approach him and remind him of how happy they were doing in their personal relationships, dating, fornicating, getting married, popping out children, etc? What kind of sick bitch would go around, finding lonely, insecure nobodies, and harangue them… torture them, remind them of how singularly alone they were. “I exist for other peoples’ amusement,” Malcolm thought dispiritedly.

“Congratulations,” Malcolm said, managing a smile. It pleased him to be ironic. It was the only way to salvage the situation.

She smiled, almost like a little girl, unaware of Malcolm’s insincerity. “Thanks. We’re so excited.” She stopped, afraid of being boring. “I just wanted to thank you. For the speech. I’m totally against war, especially this one, as we are there under false pretenses… And dissent nowadays is being portrayed as disloyalty… So when someone is brave enough to not only speak out, to organize this rally—“She waved her hand across the modest meeting room, which was now empty except for her and Malcolm. “And then… your vow… I mean, wow, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I couldn’t do that.”

Malcolm swallowed. Praise made him uneasy. He was sure that it would take very little to reverse a positive opinion concerning him. And while he was proud of his vow, it was uncomfortable to talk about on a one-on-one basis. In front of a crowd seemed safer… depersonalized… He was safe behind the podium. He could say the things he really wanted to say.

He absent-mindedly took a few steps back. “Thank you. It hasn’t been easy. There’s been a lot of ridicule—“

“I know,” the girl responded, sympathy in her voice. “People can be so mean. And we live in such a sexualized society, anyways… that’s got to make it tough.”

Malcolm did not look at her breast cancer awareness ribbon, but he thought about it as he looked at a pink balloon lazily hovering by the exit. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. That’s how I got on Good Morning America—“

“I saw that!”

Malcolm felt embarrassed. “It’s not everyday you end up telling Diane Sawyer and the rest of suburban America that you’re a 26 year old virgin who refuses to have sex until U.S. forces are completely withdrawn from Iraq.”

The girl started to laugh, mistaking Malcolm’s forwardness with humor. He stared at her stoically, used to such reactions. “Yeah, you’re right there,” she added. Her face switched to activist mode. “But I admire that, Malcolm.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly, trailing off.

“Karen… my name is Karen.”

I have to say her name now. This is what people do in polite conversation. Then I get to leave and replay this horrible scene over and over in my mind until the day I die. “Karen… thank you for the kind words, Karen.”

To be continued...

Writing Workshop

2006-05-24T22:49:00.000-07:00

I was thumbing through the newspaper this morning and I caught a blurb advertising a drop-in writing workshop at the Log Cabin Literary Center in Boise. (Yup, it's an actual log cabin.) I haven't done much creative writing lately, but I felt the whim hit me and decided to take the description to heart and just drop-in. I'm so glad I did.

It was headed up by Tamara Shores, a local author who was as sweet as pie. I confess I had never heard about her before, but she's a BSU graduate who went on to have a play produced at the Kennedy Center, and then later adapted as a short film that got some play on Starz and Encore. What mattered to me, however, was that she was super-supportive, friendly, and a great instructor.

The objective was fairly simple. She gave us a writing prompt, starting with a list of character-types (biologist, realtor, virgin, etc.) We picked two. Then we picked a common interest that the two characters would share (from a list of common interests.) Then we were given a conflict idea. The two characters want to be like each other... Find the conflict inherent in such a situation.

I picked the realtor and the virgin. They both share a love of musicals, especially Phantom of the Opera. Then, after that, I couldn't believe how quickly the details started to gel. At the end of our two hour session, I had a whole story plotted out. (I ain't gonna tell you any more cause I want to write it and I don't want to spoil it.)

Suffice to say, it was an incredibly rewarding workshop... Everyone there was very cool and had great ideas. I'm so glad I listened to impulse and just went in.

Today's Workout Tips

2006-05-24T22:32:00.000-07:00

Watch what you eat. When you get up in the morning you may be tempted to eat a donut with chocolate frosting on top. This would be a mistake. You need protein. Spread a thick layer of peanut butter on top of the donut. Now that's breakfast.

Sometimes it's hard to get motivated to exercise. I know I can't do the treadmill unless I got my tunes. Make sure the tunes are upbeat. Bryan Adams's "Everything I Do (I Do it for You)" is not especially conducive to speed-walking. Boxing, yes. Aeorobics, sure, why not. Speed-walking, hell no. Upbeat. Upbeat songs. However, there is a great temptation to sing along with that peppy pop tune. Do not give in. Nobody in the gym particularly wants to hear you wail at the top of your lungs "KARMA-KARMA-KARMA-Karma Chameeeeeeleooonnnnnnnn---You come and goooooo! You come and gooooo-wah-oh!" Speed-walking is the silent sport, my friend. Let's be good neighbors.

If a volleyball slams into your head, chances are it was an accident. Don't get angry. Do not seek revenge. (Note: If you were singing Karma Chameleon, it wasn't an accident. In which case, you're out of luck, buddy.)

Alias Season Finale/ MI: III

2006-05-22T21:10:00.000-07:00

J.J. Abrams' Alias, which has had a decent run of five seasons, finished up with its last episode ever tonight. A relatively recent convert, I ended up devouring seasons 1-4 in a quick succession, checking them out through Netflix. Seasons 1-2 were exemplary and groundbreaking. The characters were strongly defined and complex, two features that rarely go together in network television. Season 3 was mezzo-mezzo... Not as well-defined, a bit scattershot in quality, but still fun. Season 4, creatively, was nothing short of a train wreck. Still, the first two seasons were so good, I'll always look back fondly on Sydney, Jack, Marshall, and the other rich characters created by J. J. Abrams.

It was with a high degree of curiosity mixed with nostalgia that I tuned into tonight's season finale. Would the Rambaldi mystery finally be unraveled? Would we some closure regarding Sydney's ties with her mother? Would Quentin Tarantino make a surprise appearance? Ummmm, that would be kinda, sorta, and absolutely not. Now I have a high degree of sympathy for long-running shows trying to create a pitch-perfect season finale to end on. It's damn near impossible to craft something that is going to please everyone. Still, even with the diminished expectations, I have to confess, the very last episode of Alias doesn't have much to recommend it.

Perhaps it's best if I describe what made the first two seasons of Alias so wonderful. Alias started out as the story of Sydney Bristow, a college student with college friends and college-type problems, who, oh yeah, just happened to work as a secret agent for a shadowy (are there any other kind) government agency known as SD-6. After her boyfriend proposes to her, she feels like she has to reveal the true nature of her work... SD-6, very sensitive to such breaches of information, has him killed. Sydney's father, the distant and cagey Jack, reveals to Sydney that SD-6 is not only a shadowy covert agency, but that they are not OUR shadowy covert agency. Sydney has been working for a nameless enemy. The setup for the 1st and part of the 2nd season showcases Sydney working as a double-agent, pretending to work for SD-6, then reporting back with inside info for the CIA. All the while trying to maintain a life of normalcy with her friends, who are unaware of her super-spy status.

If Alias was simply a spy show (and indeed, it eventually became one), it would have still been fun, but there would have been little emotional pull. What made the early Alias special was watching Syd try desperately to hang onto her normal life, and try to make sense of her dysfunctional mom and pop, Irina and Jack. The Alias writers and Jennifer Garner managed to convey the emotional sacrifices that involve constantly lying to everyone around you. It's something that network tv rarely attempts, let alone in the context of a spy show.

The season finale was pretty much a joyless affair that paid little attention to such things. In fact, it had that last day of school type feel. They're all there, it's been fun, but man, when will that bell ring and let us out? (SPOILER ALERT) Not having watched any of the other episodes from season five, I found it to be an odd mismatch of new characters (some guy played by Baltazar Getty--who dies much like Terry O'Quinn did in the X-Files movie) and old plotlines that are marked only by their staleness. Marshall gets some nice scenes to shine, but Dixon and Vaughn are completely marginalized. In a painful scene Syd and Vaughn kiss and it's incredibly apparent that there is absolutely no chemistry left between them. They're not even trying. Of course, this probably has a lot to do with the fact that Jennifer Garner and Michael Vartan had been an item in real life, for awhile. Now... well, I felt awkward for watching. Jack is killed and while, admittably, it's a fine send-off, it was also completely unnecessary. (Again, I think there is some rule that in season finales some key character has to buy it. This is a complete mistake, as the potential for an Alias movie is there, but who wants to see that without Jack?) Perennial favorite baddie Sark is back, and completely wasted much like Krycek in the X-Files. Oh, and in another X-files-esque moment, Sydney actually asks Vaughn "how can you say that after everything you've seen"... in response to Vaughn's disbelief in Rambaldi lore.

Actually, it's quite easy to disbelieve that anything could make sense when Rambaldi is concerned. I don't think it was ever supposed to make sense... They just needed stuff for Sydney to go find. Still, the writers keep bringing it up as if to say, no really, we've got a plan. Well, the most I could get out of this last episode was that the ultimate Rambaldi device was a kind of immortality device. Very anti-climatic and it does nothing to explain all the funky prophecy crap that they've been throwing in over the years.

As I watched the credits, I scanned for J.J. Abrams name, or at least the names of some of his better writing partners, Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman. No such luck, except Abrams did have a producing credit. Where were these guys? Directing and writing Mission: Impossible III, of course. One of the most recurrent accolades of Alias was that it was like watching a great spy movie every week. It made perfect sense to co-opt their talents for the service of a big budget franchise.

So how'd they do? Great, it turns out. MI:III plays out exactly how you would expect it would: like a top-notch episode of Alias. The opening scene is vintage Alias. We see Tom Cruise and someone he loves tied up, facing the villain who is prepared to torture them both to get what he wants. And just as the bad guy gets ready to do something reallllly horrible, the camera cuts away to opening credits and the Mission Impossible theme music. Then, we flashback to the events that led us up to that moment.

But it's not only a matter of narrative style that unites MI: III with Alias. Thematically too, J.J. and crew, revist the idea of a secret agent having a normal home life. Ethan Hunt, in the space between part 2 and 3, has managed to settle down and is on the verge of getting hitched. Of course, his new bride-to-be and his new circle of friends and family have NO idea he is a super-spy. Sound familiar? Or familial, to be more specific. These humanizing elements which made Alias stand out work wonders for the Mission Impossible franchise, making Ethan much more relatable (and watchable). We care about this guy. Like we cared about Syd. The action is top-notch, hellzapoppin' fun, too... We would expect no less from J.J. Abrams. But it's the humanity transfusion that makes MI: III worth watching. I only wish Alias could have held onto it for a little while longer.

Illegal Immigration

2006-05-21T00:53:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder why you're not hearing from politicians about those law-breaking individuals involved in illegal immigration? No, I'm not talking about the actual immigrants. I've seen plenty of them on the news being rounded up. I'm talking about the ones *hiring* them, and consequently profitting off of them. This op-ed piece explains it a lot better than I could...

Yahoo News Article

Brokebrick Mountain

2006-05-20T15:00:00.000-07:00

No, that's not a typo. It's Brokeback Mountain redone in the glorious medium of Legos. C'mon, it was inevitable.

Brokebrick Mountain

Dave Uses Words

2006-05-20T13:15:00.000-07:00

In a startling, but useful companinon piece to Dave Looks Up Words, I decided to actually put them into sentences. In essence, we're movin' to the next level, muthafuckers.

arabesque.

My, but that complex and ornate design of intertwined floral, foliate, and geometrical figures sure is arabesque.

ascetic.

Being an ascetic sure ain't easy, thought Larry Flynt.

apothegm.

Hey, let's buy the latest issue of Apothegem, cried Carl. It's got pictures of Jessica Alba in it!

How dehumanization is necessary

2006-05-18T13:42:00.000-07:00

...for killing. It's interesting that I was recently talking about moral relativism and how most mainstream Christians nearly bust a gasket when you bring it up. And yet, those same gatekeepers of morality (I'm being sarcastic, but you know people who are like this), will have no problem with the idea of killing "those who deserve it." In today's political climate, that would be the "evil-doers."

Moral relativism was in the back of my mind when I picked up the paper today. The headline read "With aid cut off, Palestinians bater, borrow or do without" (Washington Post). The Palestinians are feeling the effects of the January legislative elections that saw a known terrorist group, Hammas, being legitmately elected into office. The United States government, fighting off a potential whopper of a head-ache, led the international community in cutting off international aid to the strapped Palestinian Authority. Consequently, the Palestinian people are paying for their political actions by facing starvation and loss of other essential services.

As images of hungry Palestinian children start to be published in Time, Newsweek, and such, the rhetoric will surely be driven up a notch or two. Israeli Prime Minister Olmert has pledged that Israel would help to ensure Palestinians would have access to medical supplies, all the while never forgetting to mention that the Palestinians brought it on themselves. To be fair to the Prime Minister, it's an almost impossible situation to be in, trying to please all sides.

And so the question remains: Is it Palestine's fault? They did elect a known terrorist group to office. A hard-line terrorist group, no less. Despite what you think of either side, it's a move that couldn't have possibly helped the already tense situation. Perhaps part of the problem is rooted in that... Palestine must resolve the internal factions within before it can come to the table. And it has to be done in the interest of preservation of all human life.

Of course, none of this answers the previous question. Humbly, in my opinion, the real question should be: does placing blame advance anyone? Removing the humanity from Palestine is necessary to eradicate them. If they are just terrorists, than the justification is there for their elimination. Why are there terrorists in Palestine? I don't pretend to know the ins and outs of the conflict, but I'm willing to bet that it's a lot more complex than "good vs. evil" or "Zionism vs. Islam." So to label the enemy as "evil" is a complete cop-out that allows for killing with a clean conscience. At the root of this current wrinkle, the lack of aid, we have to realize that the willful starving of a group of people, yes, people!-- says more about us than it does them. And it is not morally justifiable under any circumstances.

There are real problems here... you don't need me to tell you that. But this is not the answer. I'm hoping that Palestinian Chairman Abbas meets with Olmert and that they are able to put aside differences and embrace the common humanity that binds us. I pray for peace and I pray for ourselves, to do the right thing, and love our enemies.

Family Values

2006-05-17T21:40:00.000-07:00

Found this on another blog, but lost the link. Here's the gist: a couple with three kids in Missouri are facing eviction. Why? Is it a case of conservatives attacking a gay couple? Nope, they're straight. But they're unmarried. Yup, trickle-down morality has hit the heartland. Hopefully this will enlighten those who have convinced themselves that "gay issues" don't affect them. It does, brother. You're just a little further on down the list, that's all.

Story on Yahoo News

Dave Looks Up Words

2006-05-17T21:16:00.000-07:00

This is a new feature of the blog that I optimistically hope will pop up from time to time. In anticipation of the GRE, I decided to strengthen my vocabulary. I have to admit that usually when I come across a word I don't know I just skim right over it and plow on through. At most I'll look at the dictionary that's sitting just out of reach, contemplating looking it up. And that's about as far as it goes. But not anymore!!! While reading "Wicked" I came across quite a few fancy-pants words that author Gregory Maguire used to construct his tale. And that's where we begin. (Note: If anyone stumbling across this blog would like me to Look Up Words for them, I do take requests. It's kinda like dictionary karoke.

Words of the Day:

(taken from the American Heritage Dictionary)

arabesque- a complex and ornate design of intertwined floral, foliate, and geometrical figures.

ascetic- a person who renounces the comforts of society and leads a life of austere self-discipline, especially as an act of religious devotion.

apothegm- a terse and witty instructive saying; maxim; proverb.

Go forth gentle reader and sprinkle these words into everyday conversations. Your friends and family will look at you funny.

2006-05-17T18:51:00.000-07:00

Malcolm X & bio-pics in general

2006-05-17T12:40:00.000-07:00

I recently saw Spike Lee's "Inside Man," and loved it so much I decided to track down other Spike movies. For some reason, I had missed Malcolm X, which was released in 1992. So I've had a lot of time to catch it, but just never did. There were a couple of things that have kept me away... First, the running time is 201 minutes, which, typically, is wayyy too much time to spend with one movie, imo. There are some films which benefit from a longer running time, but more often than not, that extra 45 minutes or hour is there in because the director does not have the discipline to pare down the work in editing. (Minority Report should have been 90 minutes, for example.) Another reason I avoided Malcolm X is because I'm not a big fan of biopics. We are aware of historical figures for their contributions to society. (And in the case of the rare villain bio-pic, such as the occassional movie about Hitler, we see the detrimental effects that they had on society--the bio-pic as cautionary tale.) While these, on the surface, seem like easy subjects to build a movie around, quite often the filmmaker struggles with the process of encapsulating the subject within the context of a compelling narrative. The questions the filmmaker must answer: where is the story? What is the story arc? Is there one that will satisfy viewers? Quite often the answer is not easy to find. Milos Forman, the man who directed two of the finest biopics ever, Amadeus and The People Vs. Larry Flynt, struggled with Man in the Moon, the biopic of Andy Kaufman. Forman ably conveyed highlights of Andy Kaufman's life, complete with his bizzaro career success, his eccentricities, and even his struggle with cancer. When the movie finished, however, the true character of Andy Kaufman remained inscrutable. Maybe that has to do with the complexitity and mystery of that particular subject. However, I couldn't help feeling that the film was unsatisfying because of it. Which brings us to Malcolm X. I read the Autobiography of Malcolm X a couple of years back and I was immediately struck by the complexity of the man. At times I found it odd that in his early time with Elijah Mohammad, his main concept echoed many white supremacists: namely, segregation. Later, after his trip to Mecca, and his opening up to accepting the assistance of all races to engender healing and advancement, he showed a flexibility that was truly heartening to see. Only when I had finished the book did I see how intractibility and flexibility did not necessairly have to be at odds with each other. You could move from one to the next as needed. I was left curious with how the movie would present these different facets of Malcolm. The film starts out much like another acclaimed biopic, Patton. The first image you see across the screen is an American flag. Of course, viewing Malcolm X, the differences become rapidly apparent as we hear Denzel Washington's voice approximating Malcolm's impassioned tones... "We did not land on Plymouth Rock... Plymouth Rock landed on us!" As the words are spoken the edges of the American flag begin to burn, and they continue to burn until all that is left of the flag is a charred red, white and blue X. It's an audacious beginning and one worthy of Malcolm's rhetoric. There's a lot to cover in Malcolm's life, however, and I still had my doubts if it could be done. The most interesting aspect of his life is his conversion to Islam and his public identity as a racial firebrand. But how did he get to that point? What was his childhood like? His relationships with women? The omniprescent racism that shaped his views and experience? Somehow, Spike gets it all in, and manges to craft it into a solid, forward-moving narrative. There is an easy "story arc" to his life, it's true, as Malcolm goes through his younger days as "Detroit Red," a callow hustler on the make to inevitable incarceration, and conversion to spiritual and political leader. Even the film's ending, a coda featuring a speech by Nelson Mandela, followed by a chorus of children, each one proudly stating "I AM MALCOLM X!" works beautifully, showing us the relevancy of the man and his desire for a better world. In the end, I don't begrudge Spike Lee one minute of running time. He earned each and every one.

Miscellany: Good -n- Evil, comic books, etc.

2006-05-15T02:54:00.000-07:00

Now that finals are over and the spring semester is put to bed, I can concentrate on the work of doing as little as possible. Well, there are always books to read. I have a List of Books that I've Been Meaning to Get To. It's so long you can see it from space. School has been out five days and I've already devoured the first one: Wicked, by Greogry Maguire. It's an absolutely addictive, clever read about the *real* story of the Wicked Witch of the West. Y'know... from The Wizard of Oz. It reads like J.K. Rowling got together with Wally Lamb to write Wizard of Oz fanfic. When all is said and done, you will care for Elphaeba. (That's the Witch's real name.)

I've been writing on Unified, the comic book project me and my friend Aaron have been putting together. The first issue is written and Aaron is pencilling and lettering it. It's coming together quite nicely. I've started on the script for issue two, which has been somewhat of a bear. Comic books seem simple, but they have a basic structure or format that is quite tricky to master. How many panels go on a page? How much dialogue should you have? What actions do you leave out, letting the reader get the implication? It's been a learning experience, but I think I'm getting it down.

One of the themes of the book is the nature of good and evil, a classic theme for a super-hero adventure book if ever there was one. The protagonist, Arestia, is in a cosmic struggle with her brother, Gregor, the antagonist. It was important for me to ascribe motivations to both that would go beyond good and evil (apologies to Nietszche). Wicked really started me thinking on that particular subject. Maguire teases reader expectation by taking the antagonist of The Wizard of Oz and transforming her into the protagonist. Her struggle to overcome circumstance and fate is clearly something that everyone can identify with. Are we locked into predetermined roles? And more importantly, is there good and evil?

I've got friends and family who are at various ends of the religious spectrum, and inevitably discussions will hit on absolute values vs. moral relativism. My mom listens to James Dobson, a conservative christian talk-show host/activist, and one of his favorite rallying points is to shrilly cry out against moral relativism. The liberal college professors are teaching our kids that there is no God and that there is no good and evil, he warns. Well, he's probably misinterpreting a philosophy class (which, by all acounts, should have a variety of philosophies, not just one.) His main error, as I see it, is that he is vilifing all college professors as godless and amoral. In my experience I have yet to see a professor who advocated one specific way of seeing the world. Yes, I've had a professor assign me Nietszche. I've also had to read Samuel Huntington, noted conservative. I've read everything from Thomas Paine to C. S. Lewis. I'm not sure what ultra-liberal school James Dobson went to, but he seems quite scarred by it.
But what about moral relativism? Is there good or evil? Dobson bristles at the question. In my experience the only time you do not like the question is when you fear the answer. Are there absolute values?
For the sake of argument, let's discuss the big sin: killing. A solid majority will state that killing is wrong. A more ephemeral grouping might state that killing is wrong, except in certain circumstances. I'm not looking at statistics here, I'm just typing outloud. But talk to three or four people you know and I believe my statements will prove correct. What are some possibilities? It's okay to kill in self-defense. As punishment for people who kill. In times of war. etc. This to me smacks of moral relativism. I mean, if it's an absolute sin to kill, than NO justification should be able to absolve anyone. None of this, it was wartime crap. If you subscribe to that, that's all I'm saying. Which many Christians vehemently say they do. This is a big argument, the battle between absolutes and relativism. And most Christians' faith is intertwined with a solid notion of good and evil... and yet, while they decry relativism, quite casually, they quite often *practice* it by supporting war, the death penalty, etc. So, the idea seems to be: there are absolutes, but they are unattainable or inconvienent to adhere to.
My point being, if we can't be consistent on killing, what's going to happen with other sins, such as lying or stealing?
This is not an invitation to kill or steal or whatever. It is an invitation for those who dislike the idea of moral relativism to start first by holding themselves to a higher standard. I find that the most useful bit of advice is "Do unto others what you would have done unto you." So much of Chrisitianity becomes dogmatic, a Pharisee's dream, but that particular line cuts through it all.

More Stuff On What My Blog is Doing

2006-03-18T04:04:00.000-08:00

What can my Blog do? I'm glad you asked that, Queen Froggy. I also plan to post examples of my writing. I like to write sometimes. Sometimes it's fiction, sometimes it's non-fiction. Sometimes it's a odd bastard combination of the two which I like to call Friction! I will also have poems, comic book reviews, some of my homework assignments, pop culture musings, and relationship tips. If all goes according to plan, it'll read like exactly like the Oprah magazine.

2006-03-18T03:35:00.000-08:00

I suppose a mission statement is in order. What is this blog really about, anyway? Well, I can tell you what it's not about. It's not about Korea. North or South. Nothing against the Koreans. They have many fine looking women of Asian descent and I've purchased many products that say "Made in Korea." I believe most "Precious Moments" figurines are "made in Korea." And condoms. Go find a condom, and I believe most of them say "made in Korea." (The writing is really small.) So mad props to Koreans. But I know absolutely nothing about them!! All I know is that Korea is an island somewhere off the coast of South Africa. So my blog is not about that.

This blog is not about singing, dancing teenagers. But God, I wish it was!

This blog is not about my obssession with breaking those so-called "unbreakable" black combs. Cause I can break those little motherf**kers. I just don't feel like devoting a whole blog to it.

No, this blog is a blog o' mirth, as the title playfully suggests. So some of the entries will be about mirthful things, like kittens and television superstar Jenna Elfman. Some of it will be about depressing things, like kittens that scratch you when you try to pet them and when television superstar Jenna Elfman gets a restraining order against you. I will try to equal out the good with the bad, because when you have too much good, that's God's way of luring you into a false sense of security right before He kills you.

Sometimes I'll talk about stuff that is happening to me in my life. Like when the paper comes, I'll write out, "Hey, here's the paper." That's blog verite at it's finest. I want to give the reader a sense of unbiased realism towards my life. I won't hold back. If I'm feeling queasy, I'll let you know.

I'm a philosophical kinda guy. I have all sorts of deep thoughts about the universe. I will share them with you and you will be changed on a molecular level. Your very DNA will be fundamentally altered and if you reproduce, your kids will be some sort of freakish super-beings who can throw cars with their minds. I also plan to write reviews of my favorite comic books. WITH MY MIND.

Why the Change, You Ask?

2006-03-18T03:13:00.000-08:00

I did change the name of the blog, however. That's exciting and new. It used to be Dharmic Vertigo and I changed it back to my original idea, which was to incorporate my Nakedmanatee moniker. Nakedmanatee's Blog o' Mirth & Frivolity. Why the change you ask? (First let me parenthetically address my usage of writing direct questions to non-existent readers. If no one is reading this, and I throw out the question, "Why the change you ask," as if somebody is actually asking me that question--and they are not, I assure you-- ha-ha, I did it again--we can view this as a useful literary device enabling me to propel this blog entry along or a disturbing symptom indicative of a psychological mental break from reality. I'm sure it doesn't help matters to visually picture a group of stuffed animals informally cloistered around a table, drinking tea, and discussing my blog as if THEY were my readers. It's a good thing I don't do that! Pipe down over there, Major Bearclaw!)

So, why the change, you ask? Well, esteemed blogonian, Dharmic Vertigo, while punchy as hell, did not convey the sense of mirth and frivolity that Nakedmanatee's Blog of Mirth and Frivolity does. I hope to take your mirthless lives and forcefully CRAM huge bags of mirth into them until you are mirthful. Doesn't that sound like fun? Yes, how about you, Mrs. Pottingsworth? Don't give me that look.

I'm Still Here, Damnit!!

2006-03-18T03:10:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since my last entry. Okay, it's been about a year and a freakin' half. Unfortunately, not a lot has happened.

yr pal,

Dave

Thank God for Radio

2004-10-21T22:37:00.000-07:00

Random thoughts as I turn the radio dial...

On the hip-hop/pop station they're playing the new hotness, Ciara's "Goodies," which is a song where Ciara temptingly teases her goodies to anyone in a five mile radius, only to let saps know that they aren't going to get her goodies. What's really weird is that I assumed she was referring to a much-coveted stash of glazed pastries. Well! It turns out she is actually referring to very specific body parts. (If you said "spleen," take away 5 points from your cool quotient. And your credit rating.) How do I know this? Evidentally, there is an uncensored version of the song entitled "Ovaries." I am outraged, despite the educational potential of such a song. And what's worse is that there is a Kidz Bop version. Just what the children of America need. Another song about ovaries.

I flip the station. Oh it's that song "Yeah!" I haven't heard that one today. More than once. I shouldn't dis it. I mean, c'mon, who ever would have thought that Urkel would be doing so well after that sitcom. Way to go, Urkel!

Commercials.... commercials... Fun fact! Didja know that all this month at the Torch is "Rack-tober"? Complete with frozen t-shirt contests and everything! Shit! And here it is the 22nd! I almost missed it!

Studytime. In Which Dave has a Gollum-like Conversation

2004-10-18T02:12:00.000-07:00

So here I am, it's 3:13a.m. and I'm at work, attempting to study. The ghost of Darwin is hanging around, but he's just mouthing all of his words and I can't understand, and it's all a bit creepy. I must concentrate and put all frivilous thoughts behind me (or at least in a box somewhere, where I can pick them up at my convienence.
Characteristics of natural selection... the potential for reproductive rates must outpace food supply... presence of variety in all species...

(Dave. Dave! Hello? Dave. What if you were King of the Vampires?)

Shut up, I'm trying to study! Yes, where was I? There is constant competition among individuals for survival.

(Dave! Think about it, King of the Vampires, dude! You could do all sorts of cool shit!)

Okay, that's enough. The test is Tuesday. That's technically, FUCK, that's tommorrow! Individuals with favorable traits are much more likely to survive.

(Yes, survive, you'd survive, but your enemies wouldn't. If you were King of the Vampires.)

SHUT. UP. This is serious. Favorable traits passed on with greater succes than unfavorable ones.

(You could pass on favorable vampire traits to your victims, dude. Like the ability to turn into mist. And put the whammy on unsuspecting frails.)

I'm NOT LISTENING. I'm studying, hah-ha!! ENVIRONMENT DETERMINES WHICH TRAITS ARE FAVOR--- favorable? Hello? You there? Am I finally alone? I can focus on natural selection now? Is that okay with you? Ahem. Geographical isolation may eventually cause the formation of a new species.

(Sooooo, if you were King of the Vampires, who would you make for your vampiric bride?)

Oh holy shit. I have had it! How the hell am I supposed to-- Wait a minute. It could be anybody?

(That's what I'm saying.)

Oh. Well, hell, I'm thinking Christina Ricci, dude!! HELL YEAH!!!

A Brief History of Evolutionary Thought

2004-10-15T23:35:00.000-07:00

I have an Anthropology test on Tuesday. Usually I don't freak out about such things, but it's essay format, which means I can't just guess from the multiple choice like usual. Which means I have to recall... stuff. One of the questions is bound to be on evolutionary concepts, Darwin and pre-Darwin. Or as I like to characterize it, before X-Men and after X-Men. So, as a way of keeping up with my studies AND blogging, I've decided to write an outline essay just so I can form the basic concepts in my head. May God have mercy on us all.

Evolution is a scientific theory. Many people make fun of it, saying, "Hey, ya big dumb theory, when ya gonna get your shit together and become a fact." What the haters don't realize is that evolution is a scientific theory with a wealth of support, and is the unifying theory of the biological sciences. And evolutionary theory has been asked to the prom three times by the most popular boys in class, so if you got a problem, you need to take it elsewhere, Ms. Thing!

Darwin is credited with formulating the theory of natural selection, although Alfred Russel Wallace independently duplicated Darwin's ideas. Darwin also was the first to fight Magneto, dispelling him with a wooden baseball bat. But there were many talented thinkers who provided the groundwork for Darwin's ideas. You could say there was an evolution to evolutionary thought. I wouldn't do that, because that would be a really cheesy thing to say. I have my dignity to think of. (But if I blank out on the test, I might pull that out just to get the word count up. Then all notions of dignity go out the window.)

The Middle Ages were a dark time, filled with hobbits and elves. Everything was very dirty, due to the fact that our ancestors had no towels. People starved as well, presumably because the phone hadn't been invented yet and you could not call Pizza Hut for delivery. Consequently, many people turned to religion to solve their problems. In Europe, the predominant worldview was one of stasis and the fixity of the species. Nothing could change because God made everything right the first time, why would things change? If things got too bad, the proper way to fix things was to flush out the whole lot with a good old-fashioned biblical flood. Or to be destroyed by Godzilla. (See the lost book of Godzilla.)

Christian teachings that God created all life in this manner were taken quite literally. Sure, we look back now and say, wow, no wonder they were all killed by orcs. But back then, this was a sure thing. They believed in a hierarchy called the Great Chain of Being, an idea that was first purposed by Aristotle in 4 B.C. and confirmed by Marie Osmond in 1982. The basic idea behind it was that there was a chain of life, with everyone getting a particular rank, the lowest forms being at the bottom, and the highest forms, The Osmonds, being at the top. This was all percieved as being part of the Grand Design.

Archbishop James Ussher added the prominent idea that the world had been created in 4004 B.C., which he calculated by reading "The Da Vinci Code," and adding up the ISBN numbers and dividing by the total number of books of the Bible. This belief, that the earth was very young, coupled with the notion of the fixity of species was a significant obstacle to the development of evolutionary thought. That and the Dark Lord Sauron and his all-seeing evil eye.

In the 1500's the scientific revolution started to to develop as fundamental ideas of the earth and the biological world began to change, or if you were being clever, evolve. Get it, they're evolving? And this whole paper is on evolution. That is so FUCKING clever. {pause for maniacal laughter} Man, I'm going to bomb this so bad. Anyways.

The year was 1514. Tom Hanks had just won the Oscar for Philadelphia. And some kooky bastard named Copernicus decided to challange one of Aristotle's ideas to a drinking contest. Copernicus posited that the earth was so not the center of the universe, (as if!) and that the solar system was heliocentric. This freaked Europeans out, but not the Indians who had already figured that one out a long time ago. This would come into play later on in Superman II.

In the 17th century scientists began to develop the laws of physics, motion and gravity so we could safely walk without floating away. We also made great strides in casting off the chains of our oppresive ape masters. Europeans began to investigate nature as if it was mechanistic, and sought to discover its fundamental laws without reference to biblical ideas or songs by Jewel. This pissed off thousands of angry Jewel fans, which in turn, was the impetus for the Russian revolution.

There were many precursors to the theory of evolution, not the least of which was the "Theory of Chicken as a Pizza Topping," which is highly contested to this day, so much so that I am risking my life mentioning it right now. But there were many scientists and thinkers who came up with these great ideas, most of them proven wrong today, and it is a good idea to list them so as to use up all the paper in my essay book as quickly as possible. They were the ones who provided Darwin with a framework of ideas for his theory of evolution. They were smart, controversial, highly attractive, and in the case of Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, refreshingly French.

Showing a devastating lack of creativity, I shall discuss them in chronological order. John Ray (1627-1705), an ordained minister at Cambridge University, was the first to recognize that groups of plants and animals could be distinguished from other groups by their ability to produce offspring. He also masturbated quite frequently, described in stunning detail in his essay "On the Process of Masturbating." He coined the terms genus and species, recognizing that similar species could be grouped together. This was actually a big deal, on par with the invention of the XBox.

Carolus Linnaeus (1707-1778) was the Swedish naturalist with the crazy name! He believed in the fixity of the species, which was stupid. He also believed that squirrels turned out the sun at night. But hey, he did develop the binomial system of classification for plants in his publication, Systema Naturae (1735.) He also added the taxonomic levels class and order, classifying humans as Homo sapiens. This too, pissed off the Jewel fans, resulting in more Russian revolution.

Comte de Buffon (1707-1788) had parents who hated him, resulting in the ridiculous name. He stressed the importance of change in the universe and the dynamics between nature and living forms in Natural History (1749). The fact that it was a coloring book did not diminish its ideas. Linnaeus did not believe that species could give rise to another species, an unfortunate observation that seemed ironic when he turned into a cockroach.

Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802) was Charles Darwin's grandfather. He was a free-thinking physician who got his kicks writing evolutionary ideas composed in verse and chasing scullery maids around really fast, like Benny Hill. He would often throw empty bottles of whiskey at young Charles, shouting "Survive this, boy!" He would later go on to write the Bon Jovi classic "You Give Love a Bad Name."

Jean-Baptiste Lamarck (1744-1829) was French, as you can tell because his name is made up of French words. He was the first to propose an explanation of the evolutionary process. He proposed a theory of the inheritance of acquired characteristics in which an animal's body parts are altered through use or disuse. He masturbated a lot. He thought that these altered characteristics were transmitted to their offspring. Although this is biologically impossible and incredibly silly, he nevertheless is credited with being the first to recognize the importace of the interaction between organisms and their environment in the evolutionary process. He was also the first to recognize the importance of being French.

Georges Cuvier (1769-1832) was also French. He was an opponent to Lamarck's evolutionary ideas, calling them filthy pig farts and tawdry rat nipple poo-poo crap. Cuvier was a vertebrate paleontologist, back when they didn't even know what that was. He introduced the concept of extinction to explain the existence of hitherto unknown fossil forms. This depressed the hell out of many people. He was also a proponent of catastrophism, the idea that the earth's geological features are a result of catastrophic events, the most recent examples being the biblical flood and the break-up of Ben Affleck and J.Lo. He believed that these events destroyed old life forms and the newer forms were the results of creation events. I'm really not sure what the hell he was talking about. Cuvier was a big proponent of the fixity of the species and had plans to open a chain of "Fixity of the Species" buffett restaurants to prove it, before he was killed in a particularly brutal Catherine Wheel accident.

Charles Lyell (1797-1875) was the man who arguably influenced Darwin the most. He also had the least silly name. During the years of 1830-1833 he wrote his classic "Principles of Geology," which would not only ensure him as the father of modern geology, but would overshadow his previous work, "Sheepherding! Not Just for Profit Anymore!"

Lyell demonstrated through puppetry that uniform processes could account for present geological features. This became known as uniformitarianism, despite Lyell's best efforts at promoting the more upbeat "Lyellrocks!ism." His ideas freaked people out because they provided the time depth necessary for biological evolution to have occured.

Thomas Malthus (1766-1834), an English clergyman and economist wrote "An Essay on the Principles of Population (1798). This important contribution was highlighted by the fact that he wrote it over the period of one year in the nude except for the a thin sheen of butter. His ideas highlighting the connection between population sizes and food supply influenced not only Alfred Russel Wallace and Charles Darwin, but also inspired U2 to go techno in the 90's.

Let's take a few sentences to remember Mary Anning (1799-1847). This remarkable, sassy woman contributed signifigantly to the field of paleontology by discovering hundreds of fossils including the first complete fossil of an Ichthyosaurus. She was burned as a witch when her dark magics were discovered.

All of these incredibly boring people formed their own league, a Justice League to save us from Starro, the conqueror from beyond the stars. But what many people don't realize is that they also had a profound effect on Alfred Russel Wallace and Charles Darwin. If they hadn't contributed their thoughts and ideas to the scientific world, not only would we not understand this amazing theory, I might be doing something more interesting, like watching Matlock. So fuck you, pioneers of science, fuck you!