i really, really love my little brother. he's serving an LDS mission in Madrid, Spain and he sent me an email the other day saying this: "It is hard to see the beauty (or the shortcomings) of a painting with the nose pressed to the canvas. Similarly with our lives, self-analysis can sometimes be a difficult process... Sometimes the things that we need most, that are the best for our development, are the most bitter." how in the world did this kid get so wise?
Monday, 22 December 2008
Thursday, 18 December 2008
The last week of class I started getting a little laissez-faire in my teaching approach. In that I maybe turned the last week into a motivational seminar on how and why we need to be creative and compassionate people. We talked about how much fun they had writing their final paper (a completely creative work with no structural rules at all--they were terrified of it initially but really liked it at the end) and why they had fun. Some answers: "I'm not used to thinking outside of the box so this was really great." "I spend a lot of time thinking structurally so having complete freedom was refreshing." "Everything I do is research-based. Being able to have the chance to see if I can be creative was really empowering." I challenged them to find ways after the course to be creative in their thinking and actions. The last day of class I gave them each a hand out with my favorite Dave Eggers quote on it (which is also my sort of life motto).
It goes like this: "What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce things that are true and will stand. What matters is that the Flaming Lips's new album is ravishing and I've listened to it a thousand times already, sometimes for days on end, and it enriches me and makes me want to save people. What matters is that it will stand forever, long after any narrow-hearted curmudgeons have forgotten their appearance on goddamn 90210. What matters is not the perception, nor the fashion, not who's up and who's down, but what someone has done and if they meant it. What matters is that you want to see and make and do, on as grand a scale as you want, regardless of what the tiny voices of tiny people say. Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a f--kload of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes."
I had them read it out loud and then asked, "Well, what do you think about that." There was a pause and then Drew, my most reticent, snarky, lazy, and bright student raised his hand and said, "I freaking like that a lot. Like, a whole lot."
Cold teacher's heart --> grew too big for my chest.
It goes like this: "What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce things that are true and will stand. What matters is that the Flaming Lips's new album is ravishing and I've listened to it a thousand times already, sometimes for days on end, and it enriches me and makes me want to save people. What matters is that it will stand forever, long after any narrow-hearted curmudgeons have forgotten their appearance on goddamn 90210. What matters is not the perception, nor the fashion, not who's up and who's down, but what someone has done and if they meant it. What matters is that you want to see and make and do, on as grand a scale as you want, regardless of what the tiny voices of tiny people say. Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a f--kload of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes."
I had them read it out loud and then asked, "Well, what do you think about that." There was a pause and then Drew, my most reticent, snarky, lazy, and bright student raised his hand and said, "I freaking like that a lot. Like, a whole lot."
Cold teacher's heart --> grew too big for my chest.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
proof that school can be seirously awesome (pictures from the happening, which was maybe the best group project i've ever been a part of--pictures totally pirated from sarah's dapper blog):
sarah doing a sommersault in the middle of class (and over the hopskotch court another friend drew on the ground):
sarah doing a sommersault in the middle of class (and over the hopskotch court another friend drew on the ground):
Thursday, 11 December 2008
6. had students write one-line biographies about themselves. cried all the way to my car reading them because they are kind, loyal, trustwrothy, and overall decent people.
The man who was curious, helpful, and respectful.
The man who loved to cook for his family.
The man who cared for others.
The man who was loyal and loved his friends and family.
The man who was thoughtful, compassionate, and loved his family.
The man who treated everyone with respect and dignity.
The man who loved animals.
The woman who loved everything about life.
The woman who loved love, family, friends, art, respect, and trust.
The woman who painted for herself.
The woman who smiled at strangers.
The woman who loved dreaming.
the thing that stuck me the most was how kind and generous they were to themselves. i think that is a very hard thing to do but when it does happen, it displays a sort of larger trust in humanity and the ability of people to be kind and good.
The man who was curious, helpful, and respectful.
The man who loved to cook for his family.
The man who cared for others.
The man who was loyal and loved his friends and family.
The man who was thoughtful, compassionate, and loved his family.
The man who treated everyone with respect and dignity.
The man who loved animals.
The woman who loved everything about life.
The woman who loved love, family, friends, art, respect, and trust.
The woman who painted for herself.
The woman who smiled at strangers.
The woman who loved dreaming.
the thing that stuck me the most was how kind and generous they were to themselves. i think that is a very hard thing to do but when it does happen, it displays a sort of larger trust in humanity and the ability of people to be kind and good.
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
*of the cold: i am making progress. i know that because i walked outside and thought, "oh this isn't so bad...it's actually kind of nice out." then saw that it was 26 degrees out.
1. 4 hours of sleep. upon waking, edited grad school/law school apps for friends, agreed to edit a few more. wrote letters of recommendation for students.
2. scrapped ALL THREE of my potential workshop essays (which i labored over for many moons, or at least a few weeks) at last minute because none of them were all that great. wrote entire new essay complete with semaphore images. not as intellectually interesting, but it looks fun and that's really all that matters in the long run, right?
3. wrote 15 page research paper for new digital media class. decided i hated said 15 page research paper. stopped myself from deleting 15 pages but wrote new, 19 page research paper, complete with 6 original T9 (text on nine keys) procedural poems. liked the paper very much, despite the many, many spelling errors and one floating half sentence that i forgot to delete from a vagrant copy/paste fiasco. and the two sorces i forgot to put on my works cited list.
4. helped orrganize, execute, and participate in ridiculously awesome hack the class happening. was utterly delighted when full grown adults donned thier corndog, fish, and lobster (yes, these are my friends in iowa, bless their hearts!) costumes and hopskotched down the middle of my classroom. played pit, made PB&J sandwiches, and drank avocado smoothies. was blown away by steve's project because he somehow made the bluetooth tech in his wii controler able to turn the overhead projector screen into a touch screen where he could move, click, enlarge, etc. images on screen without touching the mouse.
5. derailed my class from serious discussion by asking them if they knew what "bob's my uncle" and nose touching meant to them (thanks sarah--i was so close to using "NOT!" still have friday...) they laughed a lot, which was good because afterwards we had a really, really marvelous discussion about why reading and writing and telling stories is important, why human connections and striving to establish human connections is even better, and why they should all be patrons of the arts when they get rich off of their fancy economics degrees. we also talked about why love is so great, and why people need each other, and how at the bottom of everything people just want to be kind, loyal, trustworthy, and overall decent.
6. had students write one-line biographies about themselves. cried all the way to my car reading them because they are kind, loyal, trustwrothy, and overall decent people.
7. on that same walk to my car came to the realization that 4 hours of sleep, four botched and tossed papers, and the permanent cramp in my neck are all entirely worth it.
8. bought all the supplies for branch christmas party in a fit of delerious productivity.
9. came home, collapsed on my bed, and vowed not to move until morning.
10. SHOUTED FOR JOY BECAUSE I AM ESSENTIALLY DONE FOR THE SEMESTER!!!! (minus one last teaching session, grading final papers, giving final exam, etc.)
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
1. 4 hours of sleep. upon waking, edited grad school/law school apps for friends, agreed to edit a few more. wrote letters of recommendation for students.
2. scrapped ALL THREE of my potential workshop essays (which i labored over for many moons, or at least a few weeks) at last minute because none of them were all that great. wrote entire new essay complete with semaphore images. not as intellectually interesting, but it looks fun and that's really all that matters in the long run, right?
3. wrote 15 page research paper for new digital media class. decided i hated said 15 page research paper. stopped myself from deleting 15 pages but wrote new, 19 page research paper, complete with 6 original T9 (text on nine keys) procedural poems. liked the paper very much, despite the many, many spelling errors and one floating half sentence that i forgot to delete from a vagrant copy/paste fiasco. and the two sorces i forgot to put on my works cited list.
4. helped orrganize, execute, and participate in ridiculously awesome hack the class happening. was utterly delighted when full grown adults donned thier corndog, fish, and lobster (yes, these are my friends in iowa, bless their hearts!) costumes and hopskotched down the middle of my classroom. played pit, made PB&J sandwiches, and drank avocado smoothies. was blown away by steve's project because he somehow made the bluetooth tech in his wii controler able to turn the overhead projector screen into a touch screen where he could move, click, enlarge, etc. images on screen without touching the mouse.
5. derailed my class from serious discussion by asking them if they knew what "bob's my uncle" and nose touching meant to them (thanks sarah--i was so close to using "NOT!" still have friday...) they laughed a lot, which was good because afterwards we had a really, really marvelous discussion about why reading and writing and telling stories is important, why human connections and striving to establish human connections is even better, and why they should all be patrons of the arts when they get rich off of their fancy economics degrees. we also talked about why love is so great, and why people need each other, and how at the bottom of everything people just want to be kind, loyal, trustworthy, and overall decent.
6. had students write one-line biographies about themselves. cried all the way to my car reading them because they are kind, loyal, trustwrothy, and overall decent people.
7. on that same walk to my car came to the realization that 4 hours of sleep, four botched and tossed papers, and the permanent cramp in my neck are all entirely worth it.
8. bought all the supplies for branch christmas party in a fit of delerious productivity.
9. came home, collapsed on my bed, and vowed not to move until morning.
10. SHOUTED FOR JOY BECAUSE I AM ESSENTIALLY DONE FOR THE SEMESTER!!!! (minus one last teaching session, grading final papers, giving final exam, etc.)
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Monday, 8 December 2008
Explanation (shamelessly piratedfromJohnsblog)
The Real Meaning of Paper Airplanes:
"In an effort to completely unify my life into one amalgamous blob of artistic endeavor I am inviting people from all my classes to participate in one of my other classes at an event known as HACK•A•CLASS. What we are asking, is for people to show up and perform that which they feel like showing up and performing in a classroom setting with as many other people performing at the same time as well. It should be crowded, awkward, and entertaining. I am asking people to not break things if at all possible. I'm wondering if anyone wants to participate in a staged flash mob pillow fight? The details of this event are becoming clearer and any interested body is welcome to approach me with their energy in regards to this information."
When: Wednesday, December 10 @ 9:30 a.m.
Where: Adler Journalism Building, Room 146, University of Iowa
Bring: Anything that you can make/play/eat/unmake (finally a space to play your kazoo, wave pom poms, wear glitter and feathers, or whatever else makes turns your art on)
The Real Meaning of Paper Airplanes:
"In an effort to completely unify my life into one amalgamous blob of artistic endeavor I am inviting people from all my classes to participate in one of my other classes at an event known as HACK•A•CLASS. What we are asking, is for people to show up and perform that which they feel like showing up and performing in a classroom setting with as many other people performing at the same time as well. It should be crowded, awkward, and entertaining. I am asking people to not break things if at all possible. I'm wondering if anyone wants to participate in a staged flash mob pillow fight? The details of this event are becoming clearer and any interested body is welcome to approach me with their energy in regards to this information."
When: Wednesday, December 10 @ 9:30 a.m.
Where: Adler Journalism Building, Room 146, University of Iowa
Bring: Anything that you can make/play/eat/unmake (finally a space to play your kazoo, wave pom poms, wear glitter and feathers, or whatever else makes turns your art on)
Saturday, 6 December 2008
literally. i watched this and thought, "this can't be possible. but it IS."
courtesy sir luke and megan
courtesy sir luke and megan
kevin kelly has a lot of really interesting things to say in his wired article of the internet's genesis--what was expected and what actually happened. here are two things that stuck out to me:
1.The scope of the Web today is hard to fathom. The total number of Web pages, including those that are dynamically created upon request and document files available through links, exceeds 600 billion. That's 100�pages per person alive.
How could we create so much, so fast, so well? In fewer than 4,000 days, we have encoded half a trillion versions of our collective story and put them in front of 1 billion people, or one-sixth of the world's population. That remarkable achievement was not in anyone's 10-year plan.
2. No Web phenomenon is more confounding than blogging. Everything media experts knew about audiences - and they knew a lot - confirmed the focus group belief that audiences would never get off their butts and start making their own entertainment. Everyone knew writing and reading were dead; music was too much trouble to make when you could sit back and listen; video production was simply out of reach of amateurs. Blogs and other participant media would never happen, or if they happened they would not draw an audience, or if they drew an audience they would not matter. What a shock, then, to witness the near-instantaneous rise of 50�million blogs, with a new one appearing every two seconds. There - another new blog! One more person doing what AOL and ABC - and almost everyone else - expected only AOL and ABC to be doing. These user-created channels make no sense economically. Where are the time, energy, and resources coming from?
The audience.
1.The scope of the Web today is hard to fathom. The total number of Web pages, including those that are dynamically created upon request and document files available through links, exceeds 600 billion. That's 100�pages per person alive.
How could we create so much, so fast, so well? In fewer than 4,000 days, we have encoded half a trillion versions of our collective story and put them in front of 1 billion people, or one-sixth of the world's population. That remarkable achievement was not in anyone's 10-year plan.
2. No Web phenomenon is more confounding than blogging. Everything media experts knew about audiences - and they knew a lot - confirmed the focus group belief that audiences would never get off their butts and start making their own entertainment. Everyone knew writing and reading were dead; music was too much trouble to make when you could sit back and listen; video production was simply out of reach of amateurs. Blogs and other participant media would never happen, or if they happened they would not draw an audience, or if they drew an audience they would not matter. What a shock, then, to witness the near-instantaneous rise of 50�million blogs, with a new one appearing every two seconds. There - another new blog! One more person doing what AOL and ABC - and almost everyone else - expected only AOL and ABC to be doing. These user-created channels make no sense economically. Where are the time, energy, and resources coming from?
The audience.
Thursday, 4 December 2008
If the weather is fine on a Saturday afternoon when a gal should really be doing homework, said gal and pal should go get icecream in a town thirty minutes east of the homework assignment. There is absolutely no way to prepare for the awesomeness known as Wilton, IA (pop. 2,829). Wilton's own official website tried to but this is the best it could come up with: "Three miles south of Interstate 80, ideally located at the junction of Highways 927 and 38, Wilton is within easy driving distance of Muscatine, the Quad Cities and Iowa City." And don't forget the Wiilton Welcome sign, which claims that Wilton is "Ready for Tomorrow" with lots of gusto and exclamation marks. What about today, Wilton? What I mean to say is that these are simply fine ways of saying that Wilton is in the middle of nowhere.
Besides being in the middle of nowhere, Wilton is also home of the Candy Kitchen--the nation's longest running soda fountain/sweet shop:
The Candy Kitchen is run by Wilton's own Thelma and George:
These dear folks have owned the soda shop for over 30 years. Thelma even wrote a book about the shop so that it could be granted the status of "historic site." Plus, as the framed photos scrunched on a patch of wall attest to, Brooke Shields and Gregory Peck ate there. That's historic site enough for me.
Kendra and I sat at the counter in red vinyl swivel stools. I looked to my left to see a little girl wearing a tiara and sequined scarf. She kind of nodded to me and we both turned back to face the menu, my full grown legs dangling right along with her pint sized ones. I hate to admit it, but I really wanted a tiara right then. But my spirits rose again when George served us our Dipsy Doodles and Odd Ball sodas (one included just the red flavors and soda water--and it was excellent). We watched as Thelma pulled out a bag of Wonder Bread and a tub of margarine, which she used to grease up two slices. Between the slices she placed some ham and cheese then popped the sandwich in a press grill. We were basically at Grandma's house.
But the true piece de resistance was George's famous banana split, which he claimed his grandfather had invented some years ago when the shop was given too many bananas. About three other towns vie for the title of "Home of the Banana Split" but looking into George's cheery face I wanted so badly to believe that its home was Wilton. George assembled our split with the greatest of care: gently placing perfect sized mounds of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate icecream into the glass split bowl, then drizzling each individual scoop with a different flavor of syrup--marshmallow, fudge, and caramel. Then he sprinkled the nuts and sprinkles on it. He did not scrimp on either. Then he placed generous dollops of whipped cream and, on each crest, a maraschino cherry. Finally--as if it couldn't get better--George reached below the counter and pulled out a small plastic ziplock. He had a sly smile on as he pulled out the treasure from within. With a slight flourish he crowned the top most mound of whipped cream with (and I kid you not) an American Flag toothpick:
Kendra and I looked at each other, our eyes saying that inside we were clapping our hands together in glee.
If you should be in the area come Sunday December 7, you will be rewarded. Not only can you visit the Candy Kitchen, but you can attend the annual Christmas Parade:
Besides being in the middle of nowhere, Wilton is also home of the Candy Kitchen--the nation's longest running soda fountain/sweet shop:
The Candy Kitchen is run by Wilton's own Thelma and George:
These dear folks have owned the soda shop for over 30 years. Thelma even wrote a book about the shop so that it could be granted the status of "historic site." Plus, as the framed photos scrunched on a patch of wall attest to, Brooke Shields and Gregory Peck ate there. That's historic site enough for me.
Kendra and I sat at the counter in red vinyl swivel stools. I looked to my left to see a little girl wearing a tiara and sequined scarf. She kind of nodded to me and we both turned back to face the menu, my full grown legs dangling right along with her pint sized ones. I hate to admit it, but I really wanted a tiara right then. But my spirits rose again when George served us our Dipsy Doodles and Odd Ball sodas (one included just the red flavors and soda water--and it was excellent). We watched as Thelma pulled out a bag of Wonder Bread and a tub of margarine, which she used to grease up two slices. Between the slices she placed some ham and cheese then popped the sandwich in a press grill. We were basically at Grandma's house.
But the true piece de resistance was George's famous banana split, which he claimed his grandfather had invented some years ago when the shop was given too many bananas. About three other towns vie for the title of "Home of the Banana Split" but looking into George's cheery face I wanted so badly to believe that its home was Wilton. George assembled our split with the greatest of care: gently placing perfect sized mounds of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate icecream into the glass split bowl, then drizzling each individual scoop with a different flavor of syrup--marshmallow, fudge, and caramel. Then he sprinkled the nuts and sprinkles on it. He did not scrimp on either. Then he placed generous dollops of whipped cream and, on each crest, a maraschino cherry. Finally--as if it couldn't get better--George reached below the counter and pulled out a small plastic ziplock. He had a sly smile on as he pulled out the treasure from within. With a slight flourish he crowned the top most mound of whipped cream with (and I kid you not) an American Flag toothpick:
Kendra and I looked at each other, our eyes saying that inside we were clapping our hands together in glee.
If you should be in the area come Sunday December 7, you will be rewarded. Not only can you visit the Candy Kitchen, but you can attend the annual Christmas Parade:
"A WILTON BEAVER CHRISTMAS" is the theme this year. Santa and Mrs. Claus's arrival is going to be a Christmas Parade starting at 5 p.m. The parade route will start at the Wilton Post Office on Fourth St, and will end at the former Campbell Chiropractic office (121 W. 4th St.), where Santa will visit with the children in the Community until 6:30 p.m. Santa would love to see crowded streets for his Grand Entrance. So let's all show up to welcome Santa!
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
(this is a repost from transpacific)
I have been thinking a lot about reading--or my lack of reading, which is not entirely true since I read quite a bit--I suppose maybe my lack of reading things that grip me, that make me want to stand up and shout, "This is what it's all about!" But there is one short story that I read a few months ago that moved me entirely: Nam Le's "Love and Honor and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice." The title comes from Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech, which goes like this:
Now, I am not entirely in love with Faulkner but there are moments when I am. Like now. Sometimes it is fully worth it to feel a bit heroic about poetry and literature.
I have been thinking a lot about reading--or my lack of reading, which is not entirely true since I read quite a bit--I suppose maybe my lack of reading things that grip me, that make me want to stand up and shout, "This is what it's all about!" But there is one short story that I read a few months ago that moved me entirely: Nam Le's "Love and Honor and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice." The title comes from Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech, which goes like this:
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
Now, I am not entirely in love with Faulkner but there are moments when I am. Like now. Sometimes it is fully worth it to feel a bit heroic about poetry and literature.
*Hear Le talk about his book here (start at 29:00). He has a great Australian accent, so that doesn't hurt at all :)
Monday, 1 December 2008
two things:
1. i forgot to mention that i got slightly snowed-in in laramie, wy. my friend kendra suggested that it might be "romantic" and then proceeded to paint a scene including a rustic cabin, a roaring fire, and a good man. to which i asked her, "wasn't that a scene from white christmas?" which it is, basically, the one with the sandwiches and the fireplace. but it reminded me of this:
which is a) amazing and b) reminds me always of my cousins because we watched this maybe 100,000 times on this cruise once. note: being nearly snowed-in in laramie, wy = not so romantic.
2. on november first i was driving home from somewhere and my friend dan pulled up next to me motioning wildly for me to roll down the window. you know the motion: closed fist going in rapid circles and an occassional index finger pointing down. so i rolled down my window and he yelled, "turn on the radio!" sure enough, the dulcet sounds of the greatest diva of all floated out. and now that it is finally december first, with real live white cold snow covering everything in sight, i feel totally legit to post the sappiest, jangliest, most awesome song ever:
oh christmas, how i love you.
1. i forgot to mention that i got slightly snowed-in in laramie, wy. my friend kendra suggested that it might be "romantic" and then proceeded to paint a scene including a rustic cabin, a roaring fire, and a good man. to which i asked her, "wasn't that a scene from white christmas?" which it is, basically, the one with the sandwiches and the fireplace. but it reminded me of this:
which is a) amazing and b) reminds me always of my cousins because we watched this maybe 100,000 times on this cruise once. note: being nearly snowed-in in laramie, wy = not so romantic.
2. on november first i was driving home from somewhere and my friend dan pulled up next to me motioning wildly for me to roll down the window. you know the motion: closed fist going in rapid circles and an occassional index finger pointing down. so i rolled down my window and he yelled, "turn on the radio!" sure enough, the dulcet sounds of the greatest diva of all floated out. and now that it is finally december first, with real live white cold snow covering everything in sight, i feel totally legit to post the sappiest, jangliest, most awesome song ever:
oh christmas, how i love you.
i came late in life to my love of the narwhal. here is the reason why:
and this:
i mean, excuse me? most adorable thing in the world! and for only $750 (once you get to china that is) you too can play with a baby panda. i'm not saying that this might be one of my dreams in life, but it is.
anyway, moral of the story. i think all of my dreams just came true with this panda frying pan:
and this:
i mean, excuse me? most adorable thing in the world! and for only $750 (once you get to china that is) you too can play with a baby panda. i'm not saying that this might be one of my dreams in life, but it is.
anyway, moral of the story. i think all of my dreams just came true with this panda frying pan:
Thursday, 27 November 2008
though everything has been pretty ridiculously beautiful on this dear little utah trip, there are a few things that deserve standing ovations. maybe things like the Inadvertent Navy/Navy TWINS!
or, the return of the Great Action Shot Adventure (featuring new player ASHMAE! doing her one of the kind Russian folk dance/karate chop move)
or, the audition for wikipedia's new fistpump image!
or, making puppeteering dreams come true at kneaders:
or, miraculously adorable/awkward action shots:
so here is to glorious, glorious, reunions of transpacificists nationwide:
or, the return of the Great Action Shot Adventure (featuring new player ASHMAE! doing her one of the kind Russian folk dance/karate chop move)
or, the audition for wikipedia's new fistpump image!
or, making puppeteering dreams come true at kneaders:
or, miraculously adorable/awkward action shots:
so here is to glorious, glorious, reunions of transpacificists nationwide:
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
sometimes i open my email and see treasures such as this:
which make me want to cry with delight (SO CUTE!) and pain (why am i not the one sitting next to that precious cargo!??) (PS this panda on a plane was so perfect because i just saw kung fu panda last night and it was awesome.)
my dear friend spencer (don't mind the creepy photo), who now has a stellar beard a lovely wife who bakes delicious things in a bakery, started sending me unbearably cute things a few years ago. i'm not sure why. but thankfully, the more and more cheesy i get, the more and more friends seem to send me unbearably cute/weird things. check these chicken police out from sharky shark:
or this from jared:
i am seriously so blessed!
which make me want to cry with delight (SO CUTE!) and pain (why am i not the one sitting next to that precious cargo!??) (PS this panda on a plane was so perfect because i just saw kung fu panda last night and it was awesome.)
my dear friend spencer (don't mind the creepy photo), who now has a stellar beard a lovely wife who bakes delicious things in a bakery, started sending me unbearably cute things a few years ago. i'm not sure why. but thankfully, the more and more cheesy i get, the more and more friends seem to send me unbearably cute/weird things. check these chicken police out from sharky shark:
or this from jared:
i am seriously so blessed!
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Monday, 17 November 2008
if it wasn't apparent from my post on power pop ballads, it should be painfully apparent now: i am in love with top 40 pop. i do not know how this started, but i do know that every time i am the car i turn on the radio. tonight i actually listened to delilah. her breathy voice soothed my tattered little nerves and i sank into her tonally-imbalanced selection of love songs ("you're the one that i want" AND "everything i do i do it for you") with something that very closely resembled relief.
i have a suspicion that my top 40 love started out ironically (like my now very enthused love of the high five, the word "awesome," raising the roof, and shouting "woot woot" in reference to anything from california). it may also coincide with my increasingly frequent steps into the arena known as "middle aged interests" (no offense).
my love for jason mraz is deep, abiding, unironic, and unapologetic. and i am glad that he has made it to the commercially successful world of top 40 pop. like, truly, and selfishly. it means that he's on the radio a lot more. anyway, shortly after moving to iowa i became absolutely convinced that his new song would be on some station at any given moment of the day. my hunch was confirmed on countless drives. but sometime three weeks ago i stopped hearing the song on the radio. completely unacceptable. in retaliation, i started to listen to the radio even more and with a sort of unidentifiable desperation. sure, i could have just bought the song on iTunes but something more was at stake--sanity or something like that. i had become so convinced of my theory--that everything in the world would be okay if i could just hear this one silly song once a day while driving in the car--that it really did feel like a betrayal to find out that i was wrong.
so tonight, after being deterred on detour after detour trying to drive the single mile home, a miracle happened. i was at a stop light staring at all the trees with the christmas lights twinkling. it was dark and really, really cold and i heard the dulcet, cheesy intro of that dulcet, cheesy song and i just started to cry because, well, it was dark, cold, and the christmas lights were twinkling and deep down something unthawed and i was thankful. when i got home i bought the song and it felt oh so right. so this one goes out to jason mraz:
i mean, seriously, so cheesy and so lovely:
Look into your heart and you'll find love love love love
Listen to the music of the moment, maybe sing with me
All - ah peaceful melody
And it's our God-forsaken right to be loved love loved love loved
i have a suspicion that my top 40 love started out ironically (like my now very enthused love of the high five, the word "awesome," raising the roof, and shouting "woot woot" in reference to anything from california). it may also coincide with my increasingly frequent steps into the arena known as "middle aged interests" (no offense).
my love for jason mraz is deep, abiding, unironic, and unapologetic. and i am glad that he has made it to the commercially successful world of top 40 pop. like, truly, and selfishly. it means that he's on the radio a lot more. anyway, shortly after moving to iowa i became absolutely convinced that his new song would be on some station at any given moment of the day. my hunch was confirmed on countless drives. but sometime three weeks ago i stopped hearing the song on the radio. completely unacceptable. in retaliation, i started to listen to the radio even more and with a sort of unidentifiable desperation. sure, i could have just bought the song on iTunes but something more was at stake--sanity or something like that. i had become so convinced of my theory--that everything in the world would be okay if i could just hear this one silly song once a day while driving in the car--that it really did feel like a betrayal to find out that i was wrong.
so tonight, after being deterred on detour after detour trying to drive the single mile home, a miracle happened. i was at a stop light staring at all the trees with the christmas lights twinkling. it was dark and really, really cold and i heard the dulcet, cheesy intro of that dulcet, cheesy song and i just started to cry because, well, it was dark, cold, and the christmas lights were twinkling and deep down something unthawed and i was thankful. when i got home i bought the song and it felt oh so right. so this one goes out to jason mraz:
i mean, seriously, so cheesy and so lovely:
Look into your heart and you'll find love love love love
Listen to the music of the moment, maybe sing with me
All - ah peaceful melody
And it's our God-forsaken right to be loved love loved love loved
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
a friend pointed out these two treasures that iTunes failed to put on the list (travesty!)
Anything for Love - Meat Loaf (I was very surprised this didn't come up but I defintely watched it and the following Dr. Pepper commeercial last night to make up for it!)
Bette Davis Eyes - Kim Carnes (the real atrocity is that I don't actually own this song...easily remedied!)
Anything for Love - Meat Loaf (I was very surprised this didn't come up but I defintely watched it and the following Dr. Pepper commeercial last night to make up for it!)
Bette Davis Eyes - Kim Carnes (the real atrocity is that I don't actually own this song...easily remedied!)
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
i love how my computer knows me better than a lot of real people...oh algorithms, i trust you with my life.
lia & trish both posted things on secrets and now i will reveal one of mine (not so secret, actually). i like--no, love, thrive--on power pop ballads.
and the cheesier/sappier the better. much to my dismay, this once ironic indulgence has now become the real mccoy. you can only listen to "i would do anything for love" and "total eclipse of the heart" so many times before getting sucked into the extravagance. this is the exact moment when i tried to convince people that these were really finely crafted pop songs and merited the same respect as, say, a john cage composition. funny how few people seemed to agree with me on that. this being said, tonight i used the "genius" function on my iTunes for the first time. and boy, what a treasure trove! and no, it does not trouble me in the slightest that i actually own all of the following songs:
i will always love you - whitney
it's all coming back to me now -celine
dreamlover - mariah
crazy for you - madonna
i wanna dance w/ somebody - whitney
underneath your clothes -shakira
you're the inspiration - chicago
they long to be close to you - carpenters
faith - george
i want to know what love is - foreginer
like i love you - justin
because you loved me - celine
the way you make me feel - EmJay
total eclipse of the heart - bonnie
let's hear it for the boys - deniece
jump! - pointer sisters
fast car -tracy
faithfully - journey
doo wop - lauryn
two out of three ain't bad - meatloaf
vogue - madonna
run to you - whitney
honey - mariah
lovefool - cardigans
i know, you are so jealous right now, especially of this move (it is an especially important one in power pop ballads):
and of this hair:
Monday, 10 November 2008
Friday, 7 November 2008
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
This is what happens when you get a bunch of writers together after reading an essay that talks about tree climbing:
Post-climb, scouting out the next tree, late afternoon falling in the meadow surrounded by trees
From Thoreau's "Walking":
It is one of the million reasons why I fall in love with Iowa a little bit more every day.
[Thanks to Kendra & Sarah for the lovely images/text)
Post-climb, scouting out the next tree, late afternoon falling in the meadow surrounded by trees
From Thoreau's "Walking":
I found my account in climbing a tree once. It was a tall white pine, on the top of a hill; and though I got well pitched, I was well paid for it, for I discovered new mountains in the horizon which I had never seen before — so much more of the earth and the heavens. I might have walked about the foot of the tree for threescore years and ten, and yet I certainly should never have seen them. But, above all, I discovered around me — it was near the end of June — on the ends of the topmost branches only, a few minute and delicate red conelike blossoms, the fertile flower of the white pine looking heavenward.
It is one of the million reasons why I fall in love with Iowa a little bit more every day.
[Thanks to Kendra & Sarah for the lovely images/text)
Monday, 3 November 2008
Sunday, 2 November 2008
Saturday, 1 November 2008
Friday, 31 October 2008
Monday, 27 October 2008
1. first snow (light, feathery, airborne, quick to melt)
2. orange maple leaves
3. buttermilk/sour cream/banana pancakes while the fog is still rising
4. perfecting my backwards writing during a boring lecture
5. tropicana pure raspberry acacia juice on sale
6. haunted everything (corn mazes, houses, forests)
7. double sweater weather
8. dances that require costumes and loads of awkwardness
9. nostalgia
10. old mix cds + long drives
2. orange maple leaves
3. buttermilk/sour cream/banana pancakes while the fog is still rising
4. perfecting my backwards writing during a boring lecture
5. tropicana pure raspberry acacia juice on sale
6. haunted everything (corn mazes, houses, forests)
7. double sweater weather
8. dances that require costumes and loads of awkwardness
9. nostalgia
10. old mix cds + long drives
Thursday, 23 October 2008
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Thursday, 2 October 2008
To kick off our Tuesdays With Iowa program (involving bi-monthly field trips around this great state--all on Tuesday, of course) we decided to hit up the number one tourist destination in Iowa: the Field of Dreams. And it was glorious.
The gift shop fits right in, what with its folksy barn-red paint job and signed baseballs (none by Kevin Costner, all by the owner of the farm, who apparently is very important. Only $9!)
Some prize gift shop gems (all under $5--it is the most modestly priced gift shop I have ever seen!)
This is what it looks like when dead baseball players--I mean, adorable old couples towing oxygen tanks--come out of a cornfield:
This is what happens when we (Kendra, Nicki, and I) decide to explore said cornfield for ourselves:
I could almost feel Terrence Mann's spray of insecticide and hear him shout: "Out! Back to the sixties! Back! There's no place for you here in the future! Get back while you still can!" Sigh...
Take home message straight from the mouth of our enterprising Terrence (sounding an awful lot like a Don DeLillo character): " They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come."
We sure did, Ray. Thanks for the memories.
The gift shop fits right in, what with its folksy barn-red paint job and signed baseballs (none by Kevin Costner, all by the owner of the farm, who apparently is very important. Only $9!)
Some prize gift shop gems (all under $5--it is the most modestly priced gift shop I have ever seen!)
This is what it looks like when dead baseball players--I mean, adorable old couples towing oxygen tanks--come out of a cornfield:
This is what happens when we (Kendra, Nicki, and I) decide to explore said cornfield for ourselves:
I could almost feel Terrence Mann's spray of insecticide and hear him shout: "Out! Back to the sixties! Back! There's no place for you here in the future! Get back while you still can!" Sigh...
Take home message straight from the mouth of our enterprising Terrence (sounding an awful lot like a Don DeLillo character): " They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come."
We sure did, Ray. Thanks for the memories.
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
the wonder years dvd
WHAT?????!!!!!!!!
and: HALLELUJAH!!!!!!!!
this winter is going to be filled with warmth, after all.
WHAT?????!!!!!!!!
and: HALLELUJAH!!!!!!!!
this winter is going to be filled with warmth, after all.
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Tonight I stood on Sarah's porch while Amelia braided my hair. She braided my hair and I watched my friends in the kitchen cooking lentil soup. Everywhere was brisk, autumn finally sneaking back into the air. I stood incredibly still as Amelia took her scissors and cut. My hair was so thick that it took a good minute to chop that braid off. And it fell to the ground like an animal stunned, eighteen inches of woven hair--a good pound of hair--gone. And it felt wonderful. Literally a weight off of me. The scissors had sounded horrible crunching through my hair but when I saw the braid on the ground, felt the breeze on the back of my neck, I knew it was exactly what needed to be done. It sounds cheesy but when Amelia asked me how I felt I said, "Like a new woman." Like I could finally move on with my life. Like everything that mattered, everything that happened when those eighteen inches were stuck to my head could be laid to rest. Is this what happens when the weather cools and the heart starts skipping like mad with all the crispness of leaves crackling under foot? When people move across countries, move out of old lives, out of old loves, out of old habits?
I came home to a single piece of mail: my Iowa voter registration confirmation.
Dear Iowa, I'm yours.
I came home to a single piece of mail: my Iowa voter registration confirmation.
Dear Iowa, I'm yours.
Monday, 29 September 2008
Usually when you get to a new town you are not greeted by this:
Oh, sure, you could dream about it happening (wistfully, with many stars in the eyes) but the chances of seeing this greeting in real life are slim to none. Slim to none, that is, unless you happen to go to Centerville, Iowa on the day of their annual Pancake Parade. Which is exactly what I, and the great Pancake 7, did last Saturday.
But even before you soak up the sweet sounds of the elderly playing lap guitars, you get to go through the free pancake gauntlet. From afar you just see a vast spread of aproned folks sweating over a whole lot of griddles. Up close it looks like this:
Note, if you will, the huge tubs of margarine, the vat of batter, the styrofoam plates stacked with hot cakes.
Then you eat the stack of delicious cakes at picnic tables and chat with the biker dudes who got the "gourmet pancake feast" (at a whopping $4--almost worth it, judging from the mountain of whipped cream and fruit topping):
After dining on the scrumptious stack of pancakes, you might mosey around the town square, which truly begins to feel like the "world's largest town square" (as the Parade website bragged). It will nearly charm the pants off you, what with the Ben Franklin Five and Dime (selling, among other treasures, David the Gnomes decked out in Hawkeye regalia), the old time-y cafes complete with soda fountains, and the porkchop-on-a-stick stands. Yes. Porkchop. On. A. Stick (that was actually just the bone--basically you were eating a porkchop with your hands, like a caveman).
After seeing that stand you are tempted to say things like, "Well, it just can't get better than that," while shaking your head with a fond smile. But then you see the funnel cake cart, with its zesty flashing lightbulbs and cheery carnival print. And you are reverted to being five-years-old where everything is magical, shiny, and dusted with sugar.
You see the mini Jean-Benets prancing about the stage beneath a banner bellowing: "Pancake Day Parade 2008: Never Ending Story!"
You see children Dressed Up as pancakes and maple syrup.
You think you might die of happiness, or sugar. And you might think, while driving through three hours worth of cornfields to get back home: "I love Iowa. So, so much."
[for the rest of the dazzling photos, see dear Sarah's blog.]
Oh, sure, you could dream about it happening (wistfully, with many stars in the eyes) but the chances of seeing this greeting in real life are slim to none. Slim to none, that is, unless you happen to go to Centerville, Iowa on the day of their annual Pancake Parade. Which is exactly what I, and the great Pancake 7, did last Saturday.
But even before you soak up the sweet sounds of the elderly playing lap guitars, you get to go through the free pancake gauntlet. From afar you just see a vast spread of aproned folks sweating over a whole lot of griddles. Up close it looks like this:
Note, if you will, the huge tubs of margarine, the vat of batter, the styrofoam plates stacked with hot cakes.
Then you eat the stack of delicious cakes at picnic tables and chat with the biker dudes who got the "gourmet pancake feast" (at a whopping $4--almost worth it, judging from the mountain of whipped cream and fruit topping):
After dining on the scrumptious stack of pancakes, you might mosey around the town square, which truly begins to feel like the "world's largest town square" (as the Parade website bragged). It will nearly charm the pants off you, what with the Ben Franklin Five and Dime (selling, among other treasures, David the Gnomes decked out in Hawkeye regalia), the old time-y cafes complete with soda fountains, and the porkchop-on-a-stick stands. Yes. Porkchop. On. A. Stick (that was actually just the bone--basically you were eating a porkchop with your hands, like a caveman).
After seeing that stand you are tempted to say things like, "Well, it just can't get better than that," while shaking your head with a fond smile. But then you see the funnel cake cart, with its zesty flashing lightbulbs and cheery carnival print. And you are reverted to being five-years-old where everything is magical, shiny, and dusted with sugar.
You see the mini Jean-Benets prancing about the stage beneath a banner bellowing: "Pancake Day Parade 2008: Never Ending Story!"
You see children Dressed Up as pancakes and maple syrup.
You think you might die of happiness, or sugar. And you might think, while driving through three hours worth of cornfields to get back home: "I love Iowa. So, so much."
[for the rest of the dazzling photos, see dear Sarah's blog.]
Friday, 26 September 2008
Thursday, 25 September 2008
It is no secret that my love for Kevin Arnold, aged 11-13, is vast and unending. But it all came into hyper focus last night at about midnight when I saw this:
[Fastforward to 5:50]
That’s right, Kevin Arnold SQUARE DANCING! With poor, bless-her-heart Margaret Farquhar on top of it all!
Square dancing… Remember fourth grade? That’s when Willow Elementary School embarked on its square dance physical education. I have no idea how they corralled the bunch of us in the multi-purpose room and taught us how to do-si-doe. There were a lot of cootie shots going around, I can tell you that. In hindsight I suppose the whole exercise was to force boys and girls to—perish the thought—touch hands (a true coeducation) since that was the start of a year long, kid-inflicted sex segregation.
We allowed the boys to pull our hair and chase us around because they were actions that resembled hating rather than loving. And we HATED boys! So I suppose the California education system thought this was the only logical step: gather 100 odd kids in a large room, put them in gym clothes, make them stand in squares and bow dopily at each other, and teach them the fine art of Alabama lefts & right-hand stars. Don’t even pretend that you don’t remember what those are.
So the history of square dancing says that some time long ago the Midwest turned “square dancing” into “play parties.” Something of a Puritan impulse. At those times a common call went like this: “Meet your honey, pat her on the head, if you can't get biscuit, give her corn bread.” “Biscuit” was code for “waist-swing” and “cornbread” was a “two-hand swing.” So really there were two competing mindsets at work in the MPR of Willow Elementary School: 1) integration of the sexes and 2) keep it clean.
The culmination of our training ended in a large fourth grade party that consisted of various cookies, trays of crudités, and a large punch bowl. We were told to come in our best square dance garb, which really translated into cowboy and cowgirl Halloween outfits. Our parents came. They came with cameras. They came with camcorders—those big guys, the ones fathers had to hoist upon their shoulders with much grunting and bulging temple veins. They came in droves.
And we had to dance, dance, dance, like so many little monkeys. The weirdest part of the whole square dance unit was that we had to also learn the Mexican hat dance. I don’t know if it was some sort of concession—a sort of, okay nod to this culture nod to that—or some horrible, off color joke that just went too over our young heads. Either way, half of the classes square danced while the other half hat danced. Every so often we would swap. There is a metaphor of some sort here, I can feel it.
Fast forward 15 years to Lisbon, Iowa where there is a farm so red and so farm-ish it puts other farms to shame. There are horses with names like “Ace.” There are troughs filled with ice, beer, and Coke. There are hay bales a plenty, stacked up to the beams of the farm. There are folks in cowboy boots, cowboy hats, and cowboy belts. There’s me, grinning like a fool and do-si-doe-ing along with the best of them. And man I look good. Thanks, Willow Elementary school, circa 1994!
[Fastforward to 5:50]
That’s right, Kevin Arnold SQUARE DANCING! With poor, bless-her-heart Margaret Farquhar on top of it all!
Square dancing… Remember fourth grade? That’s when Willow Elementary School embarked on its square dance physical education. I have no idea how they corralled the bunch of us in the multi-purpose room and taught us how to do-si-doe. There were a lot of cootie shots going around, I can tell you that. In hindsight I suppose the whole exercise was to force boys and girls to—perish the thought—touch hands (a true coeducation) since that was the start of a year long, kid-inflicted sex segregation.
We allowed the boys to pull our hair and chase us around because they were actions that resembled hating rather than loving. And we HATED boys! So I suppose the California education system thought this was the only logical step: gather 100 odd kids in a large room, put them in gym clothes, make them stand in squares and bow dopily at each other, and teach them the fine art of Alabama lefts & right-hand stars. Don’t even pretend that you don’t remember what those are.
So the history of square dancing says that some time long ago the Midwest turned “square dancing” into “play parties.” Something of a Puritan impulse. At those times a common call went like this: “Meet your honey, pat her on the head, if you can't get biscuit, give her corn bread.” “Biscuit” was code for “waist-swing” and “cornbread” was a “two-hand swing.” So really there were two competing mindsets at work in the MPR of Willow Elementary School: 1) integration of the sexes and 2) keep it clean.
The culmination of our training ended in a large fourth grade party that consisted of various cookies, trays of crudités, and a large punch bowl. We were told to come in our best square dance garb, which really translated into cowboy and cowgirl Halloween outfits. Our parents came. They came with cameras. They came with camcorders—those big guys, the ones fathers had to hoist upon their shoulders with much grunting and bulging temple veins. They came in droves.
And we had to dance, dance, dance, like so many little monkeys. The weirdest part of the whole square dance unit was that we had to also learn the Mexican hat dance. I don’t know if it was some sort of concession—a sort of, okay nod to this culture nod to that—or some horrible, off color joke that just went too over our young heads. Either way, half of the classes square danced while the other half hat danced. Every so often we would swap. There is a metaphor of some sort here, I can feel it.
Fast forward 15 years to Lisbon, Iowa where there is a farm so red and so farm-ish it puts other farms to shame. There are horses with names like “Ace.” There are troughs filled with ice, beer, and Coke. There are hay bales a plenty, stacked up to the beams of the farm. There are folks in cowboy boots, cowboy hats, and cowboy belts. There’s me, grinning like a fool and do-si-doe-ing along with the best of them. And man I look good. Thanks, Willow Elementary school, circa 1994!
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
I become a semi-certified writer, meaning something small and written during the x,y,z hours of night, gets published. And you'd think I'd be braver, put more writing on this silly little blog, but it's scary. So I take heart in the courage of Ashmae and Lia and follow in their footsteps to submit this for your consideration--
A Revisionist History of How
(from, with many thanks, Juice: A Journal of the Ordinary)
A Revisionist History of How
(from, with many thanks, Juice: A Journal of the Ordinary)
Let me try to paint an appropriate picture for you of how I spent two hours of my Sunday evening. Say it was raining and say I was baking pumpkin chocolate chip cookies (because it was and I was). Say some guys called me up to come to a games night. And perhaps when I walked into their house they were playing a wicked game of Halo, complete with a running commentary from all the males in the room. The apartment was of the cinder block assortment, of the two-scruffy-couches-and-card-table-and-massive-shiny-new-TV variety. Somehow it managed to combine every guy's apartment I ever went to in my undergraduate days. It had that college apartment smell too--some highly engineered scent involving old popcorn, pizza, wet socks, and cinnamon (from the scented candles trying to mask the odor). Props for the candles, I have to admit.
It looked like Halo would never end but somehow--miraculously--it did. Rather suddenly. In equally abrupt movements games were rejected, mulled over, then finally decided upon. The games had names that did not match any of the game names in my personal library. There was no Scrabble, no LIFE, no Uncle Wiggly (a most excellent game). No, these were games with sassy, glittery names like "CHAOS!" and "BETRAYAL!" For inexplicable reasons, Betrayal (at the House on the Hill) was deemed highly appropriate for the occasion.
This is what the box looks like:
Awesome, right?
From the minute my friend put this configuration down, I knew I was in for a treat. When he started organizing stacks of cards into neat piles the whole thing started to look suspiciously like the fantasy role playing games kids used to play in the library during lunch when the rest of us played kickball or tore willow branches down to whack people with. "Oh no," I thought. "I have inadvertently signed up to play some crazy DnD game."
But then I met Heather. I tried not to like her, I tried to be aloof. But look at how sporting and sporty she looks! I had to love her chutzpah. Who else could rock the sports bra/Spandex combo while going on monster adventures in a haunted house? What had felt a lot like mortification from a few seconds before suddenly morphed into something like excitement.
The game went on. And on. And on. At one point we looked a lot like these guys, if you squinted:
And that's when it hit me. I--though not even half as cool--was having a Daniel from Freaks & Geeks moment. And, just like Daniel, I was LOVING it. I mean, at one point we had to create an elaborate scheme to kill all of our evil doppelgängers. I kid you not--we had to KILL our DOPPELGANGERS! It was exactly as awesome as it sounds.
So Sunday night goes to you, Daniel:
Wizards of the Coast, I salute you!
It looked like Halo would never end but somehow--miraculously--it did. Rather suddenly. In equally abrupt movements games were rejected, mulled over, then finally decided upon. The games had names that did not match any of the game names in my personal library. There was no Scrabble, no LIFE, no Uncle Wiggly (a most excellent game). No, these were games with sassy, glittery names like "CHAOS!" and "BETRAYAL!" For inexplicable reasons, Betrayal (at the House on the Hill) was deemed highly appropriate for the occasion.
This is what the box looks like:
Awesome, right?
From the minute my friend put this configuration down, I knew I was in for a treat. When he started organizing stacks of cards into neat piles the whole thing started to look suspiciously like the fantasy role playing games kids used to play in the library during lunch when the rest of us played kickball or tore willow branches down to whack people with. "Oh no," I thought. "I have inadvertently signed up to play some crazy DnD game."
But then I met Heather. I tried not to like her, I tried to be aloof. But look at how sporting and sporty she looks! I had to love her chutzpah. Who else could rock the sports bra/Spandex combo while going on monster adventures in a haunted house? What had felt a lot like mortification from a few seconds before suddenly morphed into something like excitement.
The game went on. And on. And on. At one point we looked a lot like these guys, if you squinted:
And that's when it hit me. I--though not even half as cool--was having a Daniel from Freaks & Geeks moment. And, just like Daniel, I was LOVING it. I mean, at one point we had to create an elaborate scheme to kill all of our evil doppelgängers. I kid you not--we had to KILL our DOPPELGANGERS! It was exactly as awesome as it sounds.
So Sunday night goes to you, Daniel:
Wizards of the Coast, I salute you!
Monday, 15 September 2008
This morning we had a small moment of silence for David Foster Wallace in class. It was just a bunch of writers heads bowed over the first page of a rather exquisite fiction piece he wrote in which he delivered Marlon Brando from a somewhat brutish interpretation to that of a poignant, multi-dimensional one and it was breathtaking. We sat in silence and read in silence until our professor finally said something: "Perhaps writing is a dangerous thing." And then: "I do not know why I feel this loss of David so much. I miss him." So all day I just wanted to get home so I could reread his commencement speech at Kenyon College because in it he is wise and honest, and it got me thinking how profound and lovely a gesture any speck of honesty is these days. Here is what he says towards the end:
That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.
I know that this stuff probably doesn't sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational the way a commencement speech is supposed to sound. What it is, as far as I can see, is the capital-T Truth, with a whole lot of rhetorical niceties stripped away. You are, of course, free to think of it whatever you wish. But please don't just dismiss it as just some finger-wagging Dr. Laura sermon. None of this stuff is really about morality or religion or dogma or big fancy questions of life after death.
The capital-T Truth is about life BEFORE death.
It is about the real value of a real education, which has almost nothing to do with knowledge, and everything to do with simple awareness; awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, all the time, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over:
"This is water."
"This is water."
It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive in the adult world day in and day out. Which means yet another grand cliché turns out to be true: your education really IS the job of a lifetime. And it commences: now.
I wish you way more than luck."
David Foster Wallace (linked to Perpetually Peregrine's post, which puts lots of things I think about this into words).
Saturday, 13 September 2008
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
Sunday, 7 September 2008
rollerblading was cool in my neighborhood for a few months in 1995. there was a lot of street hockey going on and that naturally meant blades for all. then, inexplicably, rollerblading became the exact opposite of cool. mostly it's because people with blades started doing things like this:
unacceptable.
so paris in 2004 took me by complete surprise. never in my life had i seen so many normal, urban, attractive people on six wheels. and yet there they were, constantly: swooshing down the beaux arts bridge, loop-de-looping through arcades, taking casual drags on cigarettes as they glide down the quai d'orsay. none of them wore spandex, kneepads, helmets, or darkly tinted glasses. in fact, most of them seemed to be of the corduroy jacket and literary satchel set (i.e. cool). did blading--excuse me, bladin'--get so uncool that it made the highly coveted hairpin turn to become uber-kitsch cool? and why did this turn fail to happen in america? we can blame baywatch and other similar boardwalks (reality based and otherwise), spandex, and the mid-90s perky workout ethic but that would be too easy an out. i think the sole reason why bladin' never made it back to cool in the good ol' usa is simple: in 1998 disney made a movie called, appropriately, brink!
unfortunately, in america, the art of rollerblading would never recover from this particular disneyfication.
this is nothing against brink!--heavens no! and this is especially nothing against the puppy-eyed boy next door erik von detten who, according to imdb.com, possesses "leading man good looks and undeniable charm" (true!) i'm just saying that brink! basically quarantine the sport to a fluffy disney arena, and that is an arena in which no honest to goodness x-treme sporter wants to be. the good thing about brink! is that it really helped pave the way for other influential tween disney movies such as high school musical, 1 - 3. and it left us with so many gems such as when gabby, the go hard or die hard female blader of the x-bladz crew, says "skating from the heart" and really means that in almost every situation bladin' means living from the heart.
and that is why this week i chose to go against the prevalent feeling that bladin' = horribly passé. that is why i pulled my $20 k-mart blades out of my trunk, pulled on my knee high striped socks, and strapped myself into the blades. and let me tell you, they looked good on my feet. and i felt good flying down these iowa sidewalks. and even though more than four cars rolled down their windows after honking to shout "WOOOOOOOOT WOOOOOOOT!" i did not take the smallest offense. so today you might want to ask yourself the same question gabby asked andy brinker: "when you woke up today did you say, 'today i'm gonna talk or today i'm gonna skate'?"
[5:28 - 8:00]
i rest my case.
oh i'm sorry...
now i do.
Friday, 5 September 2008
for this wondrous video, which i watch at least 5 times a day:
amit peled, you who at the age of twenty-one, flew from israel to yale to study with a great cellist, a master cellist (who invited you on full scholarship)--you who told this master cellist one year later that it was time to go somewhere new. and what did you do? you phoned bernard greenhouse at his home in the cape and said, simply, with no frills: "mr. greenhouse you are my hero. can i come play for you?" because that is all you've ever wanted to do. and of course he was pleased with the tenacity of twenty-two and said, "sure!" and even though you shook like crazy through the whole piece you still found the courage to tell him you wanted to leave yale, the scholarship, even dear aldo parisot just to study with him, mr. greenhouse, in the cape. so you did just that. and you studied together, cooked together, walked together, and during every free moment you played, you learned how to breathe properly, how to hold your cello properly, how to love the music and the shape of your cello so completely which shows in every movement of your hands and face. and this is what i want from life--this immersion and immensity of art.
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Monday, 1 September 2008
Sunday, 31 August 2008
dear kevin arnold,
remember when you took off your jacket and put it over winnie cooper's shoulders? right after her brother's funeral and you were sitting on that rock? that was the first moment when i knew i loved you. and then there was that time when you rode furiously to winnie's house on your bike with the U-shaped handlebars and you waited and waited outside her house until she came but she didn't want to see you and you did not accept that. so you climbed up onto her roof and that great song played with the dark falling all around and you whispered "i love you" through the window and she said it back--that melted my cold, cold heart faster than a fudgesicle on hot asphalt. these were important moments, beautiful moments, so important that even a decade later when i watch these clips with patricia we feel our hearts jump and it makes us glad and nostalgic all at once. and it is good.
xo,
amy
[0:22-0:55 is perhaps the most amazing 30 seconds of TV from my youth]
remember when you took off your jacket and put it over winnie cooper's shoulders? right after her brother's funeral and you were sitting on that rock? that was the first moment when i knew i loved you. and then there was that time when you rode furiously to winnie's house on your bike with the U-shaped handlebars and you waited and waited outside her house until she came but she didn't want to see you and you did not accept that. so you climbed up onto her roof and that great song played with the dark falling all around and you whispered "i love you" through the window and she said it back--that melted my cold, cold heart faster than a fudgesicle on hot asphalt. these were important moments, beautiful moments, so important that even a decade later when i watch these clips with patricia we feel our hearts jump and it makes us glad and nostalgic all at once. and it is good.
xo,
amy
[0:22-0:55 is perhaps the most amazing 30 seconds of TV from my youth]
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
1. read on your deck sitting in your brand new auction find: the rosette wrought iron table
2. instead of reading on the deck, actually talk on the phone for 2 hours
3. instead of reading, walk a mile to the nearest library and look at books of photographs for 2 more hours
4. read one chapter of a densely worded technology text book with obscure cover art
5. watch this:
6. read another chapter of said book
7. watch this again:
8. gab on the phone some more
9. wait until 9 pm to polish off the final 50 pages of dense textbook
10. watch this one more time and weep with joy:
(I've showed this to some people but it just had to be commemorated via the blog. I literally cannot get enough of the knife licking and shirt ripping. genius!)
2. instead of reading on the deck, actually talk on the phone for 2 hours
3. instead of reading, walk a mile to the nearest library and look at books of photographs for 2 more hours
4. read one chapter of a densely worded technology text book with obscure cover art
5. watch this:
6. read another chapter of said book
7. watch this again:
8. gab on the phone some more
9. wait until 9 pm to polish off the final 50 pages of dense textbook
10. watch this one more time and weep with joy:
(I've showed this to some people but it just had to be commemorated via the blog. I literally cannot get enough of the knife licking and shirt ripping. genius!)
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