Note on Below: Jeff e-mailed me to let me know that my credibility suffered, since I apparently did not know that the name of the gentlemen in queston is "Karl Rove". I submit that I did and do, in fact, know the man's real name, and that the multiple instances of "Roves" was but one typo gone awry when I decided to be lazy and repeatedly use ctrl+V, rather than type it out.
My apologies, and thanks to Jeff, the bitch.
My thoughts on this whole "One" campaign that assaults me every time I start AIM:
The Oval Office, sometime in the past few months:
Karl Roves: What we need is something to distract the American people from the whole "Strangling Democracy Slowly and Occupying Iraq" situation. Something flashy, something Jazzy...something with even more death.
Squeaky-voiced White House Intern: Death, sir?
Karl Roves: Yes, yes, the masses love their death. Something global and scary...a giant, horrifying diversion.
Suck-up Assistant: Absolutely Brilliant, Mr. Rove, you've done it again. How about this whole Africa situation?
Roves: Mmmm, refresh me.
Squeaky: Millions dying, wide-spread poverty, AIDs. Wiping the poor off the face of the continent.
Suck-Up: One death every three minutes, I believe.
Roves: Damn! That's so SEXY!
Suck Up: *Glances at his beeping watch.* Ooops, there goes another one!
Roves: This is perfect! But...AIDs. People don't care about AIDs. They think it's a government-disease created to control the population of blacks and gays.
Squeaky: Isn't it, sir?
Roves: Well, of course it is, but that's not the point. We need to get someone to endorse this little project. A celebrity, perhaps.
Suck-Up: A GROUP of celebrities!
Roves: PERFECT!
Squeaky: But...sir.....Celebrities only care about themselves.
Roves and Suck-up: Ooooo.
Roves: We need to change their minds...Who do we have blackmail on?
Suck-Up: We have pictures of Rita Wilson taking it up the ass from P. Diddy while Tom Hanks does Kate Hudson in the background.
Roves: Ooooh, Goldie won't like that. But we need more...Who's that sexy activist slut?
*Squeaky and Suck-up Glances at each other*
Squeaky: You'll have to be more specific.
Roves: That actress...from all those bad movies.
Suck-Up: Drew Barrymore?
Roves: No, the really hot one, with the African kid.
Squeaky: Angelina Jolie, sir?
Roves: Yes! Her! She's perfect. This is right up her alley, and she'll do anyone for a good cause.
Suck-Up: Or for any other reason.
Roves: Exactly. Get her to sleep with a few big names. They'll be putty in our hands in no time.
*Rove begins to laugh maniacally, and Suck-Up Joins in. Squeaky begins making key telephone calls as the President walks into the room and joins up in the laughter.*
Bush: Heh heh heh....boobies.
Okay, I took that way too far, but I think I've managed to illustrate my point. Me, I haven't signed the "One Declaration" because I have this nagging feeling that AIDS may be the only thing to give us a fighting chance in not becoming horribly overpopulated and having North America torn apart by riots that are likely to kill us all in twenty or so years. (I watched a shock-umentary about this while I was in California and it scared the crap out of me. I'll have to do some personal research on how credible these predictions are, and report back to you.)
I'm finding that it's really, really difficult to feel strongly about global issues when you think too much. I wish I could be really straightforward and simple and go with my instincts on this, which urge me to make a difference (Not because poverty and death are bad, but because celebrities want me to. What? Are your instincts any different?)
Anyway....Supreme Court Justices. Trying to compile a list of potential replacements to Sandra D. (lousy with moderat-ity) to see whom I support. I've crossed out any with the following phrases in the description: "(strongly OR consisently) conservative", "Mini-Scalia" or "Scalia-Lite", "wants to overturn Roe V. Wade." Taking out just the ones with those red-flags eliminates about half. This website gives better information on the possible candidates than the others I've seen. Check it out, so you can, at the very least, speak intelligently about it when the end of the civilization as we know it takes place. I'll let you all know when I've get my money on one or two...unless I've got something better to do.
On with it.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Ryan Coffin has posted on his site a list of his ten favorite novels, and, being that lately the time to write and the subject matter have been out-of-sync with each other, this seems like a conveniently short post, while still telling enough to include. My list won't be as impressive and literary as his, though.
In no particular order:
1. The Lost World, Michael Crichton
2. To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee
3. Where the Red Fern Grows, Wilson Rawls
4. Lullaby, Chuck Palahniuk
5. About a Boy, Nick Hornby
6. Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
7. The Princess Bride, William Goldman
8. Big Trouble, Dave Barry
9. Rats Saw God, Rob Thomas
10. The Stranger, Albert Camus
I don't feel good about that list. I didn't want to use the same author twice, so I picked "The Lost World" and left off "Jurassic Park" (an easy choice, but JP should have probably been on the top ten) and "About a Boy" above "High Fidelity" (ditto, though they're both a great deal better than "How to Be Good", a book I stopped reading with two pages to go.) The last three listed their were a bit of a stretch-- I remember very little about any of them, and I'm not sure if I'd "The Stranger" deserves a place at all, as I was a relatively illiterate freshmen when I read it. Had it not appeared on Ryan's list, I probably wouldn't have remembered reading it at all.
With the exception of "The Stranger" and maybe "Where the Red Fern Grows", both of which it's been some time since I last read through (though, to be fair, Zack and I got about halfway through the latter a year and a half ago or so), these aforementioned books may be the only novels I've read in the last five years. Oh! Oh! The Hottest Place, by Ethan Hawk! I read that....oh, god, I think between sophomore year and junior year, it was in Florida when I met Elorza. I don't know if it deserves a place or not, but it deserves mention as further prove that I am not unliterary. I should give lip service to my favorite writer of all time, David Sedaris, whom would easily have made the list if it weren't for the fact that he does not , in fact, write novels. I've read all of his stuff except "Naked", which I haven't gone out and purchased yet for fear that I will have nothing else to read if I do. (Currently I'm on my second attempt at Crichton's "Prey", having gotten through the first half a number of years ago and given up, and I've sporatically reading, or trying to read, bits and pieces of "Samuel Beckett: The Complete Short Prose", having seen an episode of Judging Amy that made it look good. This man, it should be said, is impossible to read, though probably brilliant, if you can manage.) I've also kept myself in poetry and blogs and bland newspapers sitting around the various McDonald's that I eat at over the years. So who are you to judge me?
This was supposed to be such a short, simple post.
The Fish Guy, whom I very rarely talk to these days (and should drop in on, soon) hasn't read a book since he graduated high school. And he's got, like, twenty thousand in the bank. So. There's that.
On with it.
P.S.
Ryan, if you read this, I totally caught the Camus Reference on the top-info-section thingy of your site, from the very last page of the novel. That quote was my scrolling marquis screen saver for years. Solidarity, dude.
In no particular order:
1. The Lost World, Michael Crichton
2. To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee
3. Where the Red Fern Grows, Wilson Rawls
4. Lullaby, Chuck Palahniuk
5. About a Boy, Nick Hornby
6. Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
7. The Princess Bride, William Goldman
8. Big Trouble, Dave Barry
9. Rats Saw God, Rob Thomas
10. The Stranger, Albert Camus
I don't feel good about that list. I didn't want to use the same author twice, so I picked "The Lost World" and left off "Jurassic Park" (an easy choice, but JP should have probably been on the top ten) and "About a Boy" above "High Fidelity" (ditto, though they're both a great deal better than "How to Be Good", a book I stopped reading with two pages to go.) The last three listed their were a bit of a stretch-- I remember very little about any of them, and I'm not sure if I'd "The Stranger" deserves a place at all, as I was a relatively illiterate freshmen when I read it. Had it not appeared on Ryan's list, I probably wouldn't have remembered reading it at all.
With the exception of "The Stranger" and maybe "Where the Red Fern Grows", both of which it's been some time since I last read through (though, to be fair, Zack and I got about halfway through the latter a year and a half ago or so), these aforementioned books may be the only novels I've read in the last five years. Oh! Oh! The Hottest Place, by Ethan Hawk! I read that....oh, god, I think between sophomore year and junior year, it was in Florida when I met Elorza. I don't know if it deserves a place or not, but it deserves mention as further prove that I am not unliterary. I should give lip service to my favorite writer of all time, David Sedaris, whom would easily have made the list if it weren't for the fact that he does not , in fact, write novels. I've read all of his stuff except "Naked", which I haven't gone out and purchased yet for fear that I will have nothing else to read if I do. (Currently I'm on my second attempt at Crichton's "Prey", having gotten through the first half a number of years ago and given up, and I've sporatically reading, or trying to read, bits and pieces of "Samuel Beckett: The Complete Short Prose", having seen an episode of Judging Amy that made it look good. This man, it should be said, is impossible to read, though probably brilliant, if you can manage.) I've also kept myself in poetry and blogs and bland newspapers sitting around the various McDonald's that I eat at over the years. So who are you to judge me?
This was supposed to be such a short, simple post.
The Fish Guy, whom I very rarely talk to these days (and should drop in on, soon) hasn't read a book since he graduated high school. And he's got, like, twenty thousand in the bank. So. There's that.
On with it.
P.S.
Ryan, if you read this, I totally caught the Camus Reference on the top-info-section thingy of your site, from the very last page of the novel. That quote was my scrolling marquis screen saver for years. Solidarity, dude.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Recently, I seem to have reserved the deeply human issues for talking with...humans, oddly. As a result, what few online conversations I've had have come out slightly more...telling and worthwhile than what I've written, or considered writing, here.
A bit of conversation with Jeremey from tonight:
FieryGwenivere:
MidnightShaman7: I agree.
FieryGwenivere: how are you?
FieryGwenivere: that wasn't supposed to be big
MidnightShaman7: I'm okay.
MidnightShaman7: Ish.
MidnightShaman7: How are you?
MidnightShaman7: I tried to call you.
FieryGwenivere: I don' tknow. I don't think I'm well. And I
got the messag,e thank you for leaving one
MidnightShaman7: What's wrong?
FieryGwenivere: I;m not sure. Things. A sad song stuck in
my head. I don't like (hate) my body. It's hot. Each time I lose
Casey temporarily, I lose a little bit more of him permanently (I
think I may be out of pieces of him). My head hurts. I need
glasses, and I can't figure out the inner workings of my new
(crappy) health insurance policy in order to afford them. Gilmore
Girl's is playing repeats. I haven't had an orgasm in probably a
month, even with the vibrator. My neck hurts.
FieryGwenivere: A week ago, I was worried about *edited for content*,
but I haven't talked to him in a while. I've been using a guy at work as a substiture
for the drama
FieryGwenivere: I need something good to die for. To make
it beautiful to live.
MidnightShaman7: What about something good to live for?
FieryGwenivere: what I said was a line from the song stuck
in my head. That line...,I think it's what's really wrong
MidnightShaman7: Oh.
FieryGwenivere: that song is...I don't know, one of Zack's.
FieryGwenivere: We got into a fight or something of that
nature one night, and even when it was over for me, I could tell
something about it wasn't over for him. He said he just needed
to listen to a song, so he got his MP3 player and sat on the
floor.
FieryGwenivere: It was a particular song, "The Flow" by I
don't know who. Trying to find it on his harddrive now
FieryGwenivere: he sat there and listened to it, like a zombie,
until about halfway through when he started crying, silently
until it turned into something akin to laughter. And then, once
the song was over and the crying was over, he was back to
normal. I asked to listen to the song
FieryGwenivere: It was a good song, but I had a difficult
time enjoying it, because i thought it made him sad at first, then I
thought it made him happy, and ultimately I realized that it was
just something I didn't understand. Just a part of him that didn't
have to do with me, and I was threatened by that, as always.
FieryGwenivere: And there was this one line.
"I want something good to die for,
To make it beautiful to live."
FieryGwenivere: He said later that it was his favorite, and I
read into that that he could relate to it. I wanted to believe that
he could relate to it from before he met me, and that I helped him,
but the fucking...me, myself, the way I feel about myself, all I
could really think all that time was that it's how he feels now,
that he's still empty inside.
FieryGwenivere: That I don't complete him. That I don't
come close.
FieryGwenivere: And I tried to hint at the way I felt, but I
could never get to him to say it.
FieryGwenivere: not that it would have mattered, I guess.
MidnightShaman7: So just ask him.
MidnightShaman7: If it's bothering you that much, get an
answer.
FieryGwenivere: I used to feel similar about "Dead Leaves
and the Dirty Ground", so I asked him and he said he liked it
because it reminded him of me
FieryGwenivere: but now I can dissassociate the feeling of
insecurity. Now every time I heard "And every breath that is in
your lungs is a tiny little gift to me.", I just hear myself saying
that's not how he feels about me, that's not how anybody feels
about me.
FieryGwenivere: The answer won't matter.
FieryGwenivere: I don't know.
MidnightShaman7: So, when it comes down to it, what is
really the root of everything?
FieryGwenivere: I'm still trying to find it in his list of MP3's.
I don't know why I should care so much about somebody loving
me who also likes the song "A Horse with No Name".
FieryGwenivere: part of me will never believe he loves me.
MidnightShaman7: Don't be ragging on America, chica.
MidnightShaman7: Then you need to fix that.
FieryGwenivere: I enjoy America, to the extent of The Last
Unicorn soundtrack
FieryGwenivere: but jesus. I hate that fucking song.
MidnightShaman7: But...but...
MidnightShaman7: ...He's been through the desert.
FieryGwenivere: godddamn it.
A conversation I had with emily a few days ago has something of a similar theme, and I thought there were some interesting observations worth nothing. I should edit that for content as well, but I'm lazy, it's late, and fucking no one checks this site anymore anyway. If you're one of my voyeuristic fans out there, congratulations-- look hard enough and it's just possible you may see something that I didn't want people to know.
Now if only anybody cared.
On with it.
A bit of conversation with Jeremey from tonight:
FieryGwenivere:
MidnightShaman7: I agree.
FieryGwenivere: how are you?
FieryGwenivere: that wasn't supposed to be big
MidnightShaman7: I'm okay.
MidnightShaman7: Ish.
MidnightShaman7: How are you?
MidnightShaman7: I tried to call you.
FieryGwenivere: I don' tknow. I don't think I'm well. And I
got the messag,e thank you for leaving one
MidnightShaman7: What's wrong?
FieryGwenivere: I;m not sure. Things. A sad song stuck in
my head. I don't like (hate) my body. It's hot. Each time I lose
Casey temporarily, I lose a little bit more of him permanently (I
think I may be out of pieces of him). My head hurts. I need
glasses, and I can't figure out the inner workings of my new
(crappy) health insurance policy in order to afford them. Gilmore
Girl's is playing repeats. I haven't had an orgasm in probably a
month, even with the vibrator. My neck hurts.
FieryGwenivere: A week ago, I was worried about *edited for content*,
but I haven't talked to him in a while. I've been using a guy at work as a substiture
for the drama
FieryGwenivere: I need something good to die for. To make
it beautiful to live.
MidnightShaman7: What about something good to live for?
FieryGwenivere: what I said was a line from the song stuck
in my head. That line...,I think it's what's really wrong
MidnightShaman7: Oh.
FieryGwenivere: that song is...I don't know, one of Zack's.
FieryGwenivere: We got into a fight or something of that
nature one night, and even when it was over for me, I could tell
something about it wasn't over for him. He said he just needed
to listen to a song, so he got his MP3 player and sat on the
floor.
FieryGwenivere: It was a particular song, "The Flow" by I
don't know who. Trying to find it on his harddrive now
FieryGwenivere: he sat there and listened to it, like a zombie,
until about halfway through when he started crying, silently
until it turned into something akin to laughter. And then, once
the song was over and the crying was over, he was back to
normal. I asked to listen to the song
FieryGwenivere: It was a good song, but I had a difficult
time enjoying it, because i thought it made him sad at first, then I
thought it made him happy, and ultimately I realized that it was
just something I didn't understand. Just a part of him that didn't
have to do with me, and I was threatened by that, as always.
FieryGwenivere: And there was this one line.
"I want something good to die for,
To make it beautiful to live."
FieryGwenivere: He said later that it was his favorite, and I
read into that that he could relate to it. I wanted to believe that
he could relate to it from before he met me, and that I helped him,
but the fucking...me, myself, the way I feel about myself, all I
could really think all that time was that it's how he feels now,
that he's still empty inside.
FieryGwenivere: That I don't complete him. That I don't
come close.
FieryGwenivere: And I tried to hint at the way I felt, but I
could never get to him to say it.
FieryGwenivere: not that it would have mattered, I guess.
MidnightShaman7: So just ask him.
MidnightShaman7: If it's bothering you that much, get an
answer.
FieryGwenivere: I used to feel similar about "Dead Leaves
and the Dirty Ground", so I asked him and he said he liked it
because it reminded him of me
FieryGwenivere: but now I can dissassociate the feeling of
insecurity. Now every time I heard "And every breath that is in
your lungs is a tiny little gift to me.", I just hear myself saying
that's not how he feels about me, that's not how anybody feels
about me.
FieryGwenivere: The answer won't matter.
FieryGwenivere: I don't know.
MidnightShaman7: So, when it comes down to it, what is
really the root of everything?
FieryGwenivere: I'm still trying to find it in his list of MP3's.
I don't know why I should care so much about somebody loving
me who also likes the song "A Horse with No Name".
FieryGwenivere: part of me will never believe he loves me.
MidnightShaman7: Don't be ragging on America, chica.
MidnightShaman7: Then you need to fix that.
FieryGwenivere: I enjoy America, to the extent of The Last
Unicorn soundtrack
FieryGwenivere: but jesus. I hate that fucking song.
MidnightShaman7: But...but...
MidnightShaman7: ...He's been through the desert.
FieryGwenivere: godddamn it.
A conversation I had with emily a few days ago has something of a similar theme, and I thought there were some interesting observations worth nothing. I should edit that for content as well, but I'm lazy, it's late, and fucking no one checks this site anymore anyway. If you're one of my voyeuristic fans out there, congratulations-- look hard enough and it's just possible you may see something that I didn't want people to know.
Now if only anybody cared.
On with it.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
With an hour before bed, the thought occurs to me in the shower that I have an oppurtunity to devote either an hour to the slightly urgent need to catch up on my reading for my Torts class, or an hour to catch up on writing, a need not of timely urgency, but of passion and intellect. One represents the practical progression of my life, out of fast food and small paycheckts and into a respectable working world. The other, the eager advancement of my skill and mind, or, at the very least, the slowing of it's regression.
The trouble is that, being an average American, I, faced with such a dillemna, normally end up spending that very hour in front of the TV.
Thus, a short explanation of why my blog has gone unupdated, and also why I won't score as high on my final as I did on my midterm
I am listening to a track of sentimental clarinette music, set to nature sounds. When I started this post, it was "It's a Wonderful World", now "Strangers on the Shore", or, as I like to call it, the song that the redhead learns to play during the montage scene in Mr. Holland's Opus. Next, it will be "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", a song I would almost go so far to say should only be performed on the clarinette, if not sung.
I love the restrained quality of the clarinette song, and have been looking for a chance to expand on this observation, in the most public and pretentious way possible. It's a strange tone, perculiar to the clarinette, the way each note seems to end as if there were something more behind it, something held back with the utmost care and control. To personify it, it's as though the flashy, provocative saxophone had a child with the conservative bassoon, making for a subtly beautiful and thoughtful child who's fantasy world is...jesus, I've taken this metaphor too far. I don't have that same "held back" quality, I regret to say.
A quick nod to the fact that I've been aching to play my saxophone lately, aching to practice and get some of what I never claimed when I was first learning, to let Zack here me play (for the first time, notably) and show him this whole side of me that has gone yet unknown. Unfortunately, I have two saxophones, one that's pewter and gorgeous and that produces a quality sound unlike any I've heard in any alto, but needs half a grand or so worth of repairs to be playable, and the other which is cheaper and sounds it, but working, which is unfortunately being undefinitely borrowed by a friend's brother. I sorely need to get that back (so that I can sell it to fund fixing the other one.)
The clarinette and nature songs are from a CD I bought for Zack's (natural) Dad for father's day. I opened the CD and ripped all the songs to my hard drive before we gave it to him, having toyed with the notion of immorality in this. Zack's other father, his Stepfather, was given the soundtrack to The Good, the Bad, and The Ugly. That was the movie we bought him for christmas, and both were my best guess, being that Zack rarely has much to say about presents. Before he met me, he was accustomed to giving his entire family Wal*Mart gift cards for christmas, a habit which I quickly broke him of. I bought my father a two CD set of Dean Martin music. For Zack's Dad (Chuck) and step-dad (Tim), the CD's were hand-delivered, an act which was accompanied by an hour's conversation, hugs, the works. Such was the reception when Zack showed up announced. As for my father, I called beforehand. My mother answered, and when I asked if Dad was there, she said yes but didn't give him the phone. She asked why I had asked, and I explained it was Father's Day and that I had a gift for him. She said to drop it off, they probably wouldn't be there, they had a very important trip to Wal*Mart to make. I ended up leaving it on the table with a note written on half a torn envelope from my credit card statement. A few hours later, I tried to call to make sure he'd found it, but they weren't home yet. I didn't bother asking my sister to have them call back.
Among other things, such as the fact that "they're just not my kind of people", this is probably why I feel so much resentment towards Zack's family-- I act like the cold distance is the way I prefer things, but, in reality, my jealousy over Zack's relationship with his family runs both ways: I've always been willing to admit that I'm jealous of how much he loves them (because love is love, afterall, and a girl always wants to be the center of her partner's world), but I'm also jealous of how much they love him. My family stopped really being a family years ago, when my sister first got pregnant, and it just went downhill from there. Also, I find it somewhat bitterly ironic that Zack has two loving and supportive fathers, and I have...my dad.
I should give credit where credit's due, though. Things have been a lot better with my father since I've been married and away. Someone, my grandmother I think, made the observation that when I got married, he realized how quickly I'd grown up and left home. Realized, perhaps, that he did love me, and that he'd just given up his little girl.
I wonder, but I don't think that's at all what it is. I think he just likes Zack, and likes me better now that I'm associated with him.
Who knows? All I know for sure is that this post is clear evidence that I need to work harder to stop the regression. Fucking stream of consciousness crap.
On with it.
The trouble is that, being an average American, I, faced with such a dillemna, normally end up spending that very hour in front of the TV.
Thus, a short explanation of why my blog has gone unupdated, and also why I won't score as high on my final as I did on my midterm
I am listening to a track of sentimental clarinette music, set to nature sounds. When I started this post, it was "It's a Wonderful World", now "Strangers on the Shore", or, as I like to call it, the song that the redhead learns to play during the montage scene in Mr. Holland's Opus. Next, it will be "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", a song I would almost go so far to say should only be performed on the clarinette, if not sung.
I love the restrained quality of the clarinette song, and have been looking for a chance to expand on this observation, in the most public and pretentious way possible. It's a strange tone, perculiar to the clarinette, the way each note seems to end as if there were something more behind it, something held back with the utmost care and control. To personify it, it's as though the flashy, provocative saxophone had a child with the conservative bassoon, making for a subtly beautiful and thoughtful child who's fantasy world is...jesus, I've taken this metaphor too far. I don't have that same "held back" quality, I regret to say.
A quick nod to the fact that I've been aching to play my saxophone lately, aching to practice and get some of what I never claimed when I was first learning, to let Zack here me play (for the first time, notably) and show him this whole side of me that has gone yet unknown. Unfortunately, I have two saxophones, one that's pewter and gorgeous and that produces a quality sound unlike any I've heard in any alto, but needs half a grand or so worth of repairs to be playable, and the other which is cheaper and sounds it, but working, which is unfortunately being undefinitely borrowed by a friend's brother. I sorely need to get that back (so that I can sell it to fund fixing the other one.)
The clarinette and nature songs are from a CD I bought for Zack's (natural) Dad for father's day. I opened the CD and ripped all the songs to my hard drive before we gave it to him, having toyed with the notion of immorality in this. Zack's other father, his Stepfather, was given the soundtrack to The Good, the Bad, and The Ugly. That was the movie we bought him for christmas, and both were my best guess, being that Zack rarely has much to say about presents. Before he met me, he was accustomed to giving his entire family Wal*Mart gift cards for christmas, a habit which I quickly broke him of. I bought my father a two CD set of Dean Martin music. For Zack's Dad (Chuck) and step-dad (Tim), the CD's were hand-delivered, an act which was accompanied by an hour's conversation, hugs, the works. Such was the reception when Zack showed up announced. As for my father, I called beforehand. My mother answered, and when I asked if Dad was there, she said yes but didn't give him the phone. She asked why I had asked, and I explained it was Father's Day and that I had a gift for him. She said to drop it off, they probably wouldn't be there, they had a very important trip to Wal*Mart to make. I ended up leaving it on the table with a note written on half a torn envelope from my credit card statement. A few hours later, I tried to call to make sure he'd found it, but they weren't home yet. I didn't bother asking my sister to have them call back.
Among other things, such as the fact that "they're just not my kind of people", this is probably why I feel so much resentment towards Zack's family-- I act like the cold distance is the way I prefer things, but, in reality, my jealousy over Zack's relationship with his family runs both ways: I've always been willing to admit that I'm jealous of how much he loves them (because love is love, afterall, and a girl always wants to be the center of her partner's world), but I'm also jealous of how much they love him. My family stopped really being a family years ago, when my sister first got pregnant, and it just went downhill from there. Also, I find it somewhat bitterly ironic that Zack has two loving and supportive fathers, and I have...my dad.
I should give credit where credit's due, though. Things have been a lot better with my father since I've been married and away. Someone, my grandmother I think, made the observation that when I got married, he realized how quickly I'd grown up and left home. Realized, perhaps, that he did love me, and that he'd just given up his little girl.
I wonder, but I don't think that's at all what it is. I think he just likes Zack, and likes me better now that I'm associated with him.
Who knows? All I know for sure is that this post is clear evidence that I need to work harder to stop the regression. Fucking stream of consciousness crap.
On with it.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Sunday, May 15, 2005
I've decided to trash a draft I started yesterday about this seemingly serious poem about racism written buy an anonymous black pupil of King Edward VI school of Birmingham which is being passed around the internet as a joke. I'm all for having a sense of humor, even on seemingly serious issues, but it just seems scary to me that someone could write something so subtle, stylistic and beautiful and a bunch of redneck honkies (including the person who forwarded it to me, my father) could post it at a site like Maniac Ultimate Jokes and Games and various others, all with considerable misquoting.
The poem reminds me of one of my favorite poems ever, We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks. If you can get your computer to play the audio of her reading it, do so. I've heard it before, it's good.*
Serena and I went to the Outright Prom the other night. The slightly Asian chick I've been obsessing about since I first saw her there two years ago was not there, which was a disappointment, as I was determined to finally kiss her (with the kind permission of my husband.) I put some real effort into my outfit and got the unsolicited approval of a transvestite with with glow sticks and dance moves that had that singular brand of feminine grace so pure as to only come from a drag queen, as Eliza Doolittle's eloquence was too perfectly formed to come from an English Lady.
I wonder how many of you were able to follow my train of thought in that last sentence.
The Prom, in general, was nothing compared to previous years, as Serena and I were the only people available to attend, and I was not at my peak performance, having just come off of eight hours of fast food duty. Next year, being the last year that most of our previously established group can legally go (As outright is intended for 16 to 22-year-olds), we have vowed we will reunite the veteran Gay Promenaders, bring in some new and really do it up, possibly getting a limo or a room at the hotel. But the sad realist in me doubts this will ever happen.
The night before the prom, Serena and I went shopping for outfits and accessories to wear, and Jenn, who happened to be in town (as she prepares to move in), was invited. She blew us off for some guy she is apparently dating who I had not heard about at all, which we accepted. Later that night, after she had finished seeing "David", as he is called, I hadn't yet dropped Serena off and we decided to go to Applebee's. Jenn was invited then, too, but blew us off for the mere prospect that David might call. She said she'd have plenty of time to see Serena over the summer, and when I argued that Serena would be spending the entire summer (starting from the day after the prom) back in Orono, she said that her and I would most definitely be taking a road trip up there. This is obvious bull. Living here or not, Jenn and I have not had time for more than a few hours together since I got married-- well before that, if you don't count preparations for the wedding itself.
I tried, in the arguments to bring these facts to her attention, to bring to her attention the obvious way that time has worn at our old high school clique, but she's in straight denial. Oh well.
Serena and I talk about that sort of thing quite a bit. Serena and I tend to have very good conversations when we speak or see each other. She lends a more-understanding-than-most ear to what I have to say about the whole situation on vaginismus, and apparently finds it most refreshing the way I come off as being non-judgemental when it comes to her private life. I've heard this sentiment before, from Emily and others, that I am good because I don't judge what other people do. I don't want to take too much credit though, I believe it's not so much that I'm a genuinely understanding person as that it simply would never occur to me to judge someone for those kinds of things. Christ, we're all adults, and those of us who aren't, well, that's even more of an excuse, isn't it?
Do what you gotta do.
I should have more to say and, what's more, I'm sure I do, but it just doesn't have the will to come out right now. It's been a very trying day and I, for one, found today's episode of Family Guy rather disappointing, though I was very pleased with one genuinely laugh-out-loud moment in the Simpsons, which I would reference if I thought anyone would know what I was talking about. No one watches the Simpsons anymore.
Laugh-out-Loud. LOL. There's something you don't see too much anymore. Thank god.
I think, to end the night, I will sit here a while and soak in some of my older MP3's, for instance Jann Arden's interpretation of "You Don't Know Me", a song that used to bring me to tears for foolish reasons, simple ones, but reasons that were pure of heart and unconvoluted, anyway. That's something I've very much come to miss.
"I never knew the art of making love,
Though my heart ached with love for you."
Today's reasons for appreciating the lyrics are deeper and possibly more mature, but infinitely more foolish. It's no longer girl loves boy, boy rejects girl. It's...ugh. It's a mess.
I don't think anyone really understands how much of a mess it all is. That's meant in a very general sense.
"Oh, you will never know
The one who loves you so,
'Cause you don't know me."
On with it.
*Poets.org has updated their site, which is why many of you got a dead link on that. It's a nice update which makes it easier to listen to the poem spoken right from the page, but I kinda recommend reading it without audio (now featured below) first. The poem is one written so concisely written that it lends itself to many different interpretations, many of which I've enjoyed, and she describes what she meant pretty specifically in her audio commentary. Go back to that after the words, by themselves, have had a chance to sink in.
--
THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
--
The poem reminds me of one of my favorite poems ever, We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks. If you can get your computer to play the audio of her reading it, do so. I've heard it before, it's good.*
Serena and I went to the Outright Prom the other night. The slightly Asian chick I've been obsessing about since I first saw her there two years ago was not there, which was a disappointment, as I was determined to finally kiss her (with the kind permission of my husband.) I put some real effort into my outfit and got the unsolicited approval of a transvestite with with glow sticks and dance moves that had that singular brand of feminine grace so pure as to only come from a drag queen, as Eliza Doolittle's eloquence was too perfectly formed to come from an English Lady.
I wonder how many of you were able to follow my train of thought in that last sentence.
The Prom, in general, was nothing compared to previous years, as Serena and I were the only people available to attend, and I was not at my peak performance, having just come off of eight hours of fast food duty. Next year, being the last year that most of our previously established group can legally go (As outright is intended for 16 to 22-year-olds), we have vowed we will reunite the veteran Gay Promenaders, bring in some new and really do it up, possibly getting a limo or a room at the hotel. But the sad realist in me doubts this will ever happen.
The night before the prom, Serena and I went shopping for outfits and accessories to wear, and Jenn, who happened to be in town (as she prepares to move in), was invited. She blew us off for some guy she is apparently dating who I had not heard about at all, which we accepted. Later that night, after she had finished seeing "David", as he is called, I hadn't yet dropped Serena off and we decided to go to Applebee's. Jenn was invited then, too, but blew us off for the mere prospect that David might call. She said she'd have plenty of time to see Serena over the summer, and when I argued that Serena would be spending the entire summer (starting from the day after the prom) back in Orono, she said that her and I would most definitely be taking a road trip up there. This is obvious bull. Living here or not, Jenn and I have not had time for more than a few hours together since I got married-- well before that, if you don't count preparations for the wedding itself.
I tried, in the arguments to bring these facts to her attention, to bring to her attention the obvious way that time has worn at our old high school clique, but she's in straight denial. Oh well.
Serena and I talk about that sort of thing quite a bit. Serena and I tend to have very good conversations when we speak or see each other. She lends a more-understanding-than-most ear to what I have to say about the whole situation on vaginismus, and apparently finds it most refreshing the way I come off as being non-judgemental when it comes to her private life. I've heard this sentiment before, from Emily and others, that I am good because I don't judge what other people do. I don't want to take too much credit though, I believe it's not so much that I'm a genuinely understanding person as that it simply would never occur to me to judge someone for those kinds of things. Christ, we're all adults, and those of us who aren't, well, that's even more of an excuse, isn't it?
Do what you gotta do.
I should have more to say and, what's more, I'm sure I do, but it just doesn't have the will to come out right now. It's been a very trying day and I, for one, found today's episode of Family Guy rather disappointing, though I was very pleased with one genuinely laugh-out-loud moment in the Simpsons, which I would reference if I thought anyone would know what I was talking about. No one watches the Simpsons anymore.
Laugh-out-Loud. LOL. There's something you don't see too much anymore. Thank god.
I think, to end the night, I will sit here a while and soak in some of my older MP3's, for instance Jann Arden's interpretation of "You Don't Know Me", a song that used to bring me to tears for foolish reasons, simple ones, but reasons that were pure of heart and unconvoluted, anyway. That's something I've very much come to miss.
"I never knew the art of making love,
Though my heart ached with love for you."
Today's reasons for appreciating the lyrics are deeper and possibly more mature, but infinitely more foolish. It's no longer girl loves boy, boy rejects girl. It's...ugh. It's a mess.
I don't think anyone really understands how much of a mess it all is. That's meant in a very general sense.
"Oh, you will never know
The one who loves you so,
'Cause you don't know me."
On with it.
*Poets.org has updated their site, which is why many of you got a dead link on that. It's a nice update which makes it easier to listen to the poem spoken right from the page, but I kinda recommend reading it without audio (now featured below) first. The poem is one written so concisely written that it lends itself to many different interpretations, many of which I've enjoyed, and she describes what she meant pretty specifically in her audio commentary. Go back to that after the words, by themselves, have had a chance to sink in.
--
THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
--
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
It's the last non-testing day of English with Professor Elsewhere, and while he is out of the room, again, we are writing and turning in our anonymous course evaluations. He has been trying to be my buddy lately, making a point to talk to me after class or during breaks, effectively asking my forgiveness for every bullshit correction he makes to my papers. (Commas that shouldn't be added. Words that shouldn't be changed. And god forbid one should exercise voice and use a very intentional sentence fragment, because the thought process involved in this would kill him.)
If he were a typical jackass, one of those big mouth, powerhouse professors who gets kicks from belittling students, I'd argue every point with him until his great big inflated head was chopped up in little pieces on the floor, but this guy's different; subtle. He thinks he's right because no one's ever had the heart to tell him he's so wrong. He's girlish and sensitive, and, much like the English Teacher on Daria, I expect he'd cry if I got confrontational about his unwarranted loyalty to archaic rules of English. Little girly tears.
In the end, it's this image, and not his attempts to win my favor with his frail, apologetic charm that keep me from ripping him apart on my evaluation. I am, by no standards, kind, but I don't go as far as I'd like to: I get a cramp from disguising my handwriting and become nauseous by writing all my complaints in simple, undeveloped sentences which serve both to hide my identity and make my point about his teaching deficiencies. (Teacher is not present in class. Teacher does not help student(s) understand. Teacher grades strict!! :-[ :-[ :-[ !!!)
Take that, Professor Elsewhere!
After we're finished with that and, in a shocking turn of events, he still hasn't returned from the room, Irene, who sits behind me to the right starts up a conversation. She is forty-ish, heavy-set and tries harder to voice her frustrations than many of others. She reminds me a lot of my mother, and the one essay I peer-edited for her didn't make me want to kick the educational system of America square in the crotch. That's always a plus.
She had made a point to comment to me, when I handed it back, how grateful she was that I put real time and effort into the corrections I made, and while this should have made me feel good, it gave me a feeling of uneasiness and doubt: it wasn't real time, it wasn't real effort. It was the same ease I've always had with everything, the sheer ability to do what is assigned. Knowing I can do whatever's out there should, one would think, make me want to do it, but it's always had the opposite affect of making me lazy, realizing I can get by with less effort than others. If only I'd had a Ben Affleck-character telling me it's my duty to succeed, in debt to the people who work as hard as they can, only to achieve far less than I could with the slightest effort. (IE Goodwill Hunting, in case you didn't get the reference.)
Irene is telling me she'd love to read some of my stuff. She is asking me if I will transfer after this class is over, telling me I should go to a university that can really foster my talents (but not in such big words.) The surrounding students agree that they notice the ease with which I speak, write, and learn. They are calling me gifted. I am telling them they should see me in an algebra class, I wouldn't seem so gifted then. (I carefully leave out that I've only failed what I didn't try. I leave out that in every assessment test I've ever taken, the results clearly spell out that I could do whatever I wanted to, succeed at anything.) I tell them it's not all it's cracked up to be to be gifted. This part, I mean.
Irene is asking why I'm in the paralegal studies program. She tells me I should be writing. This idea I've been struggling with in and out for years, moreso since last Thursday, when Zack and I visited SMCC. It was simple, but beautiful in all it's Not-Andover-ness. It had multiple buildings, a student lounge, electives and classes about art and literature and things I care about. Realistically, though, I'd have to re-route my life entirely to pursue this. I'd have to find a way to support myself while attending school full time (more full time). I'd have to completely screw up my work schedule and comp the paralegal credits I've already earned. I'd have to, you know, do something.
And, as mentioned before, that's just not something I do.
Irene is telling me I'm a great writer. Irene is telling me that the teacher's seen a lot of students, and if he's singled me out, that must mean something.
There is no good way to tell her that I'm only the big fish because this is such a fucking insignificant pond. There is no good way to tell her that I know, off the top of my head, twenty people who can already write better than me, it's just that they're all elsewhere, taking the right paths, doing the right things, going to the right schools. There's no good way to bring it to her attention that this is the bottom of the barrel. I can't just tell her I only seem like a shark because she's a tadpole.
So I smile and turn forward again. A real writer would have found a way to say it.
On with it.
If he were a typical jackass, one of those big mouth, powerhouse professors who gets kicks from belittling students, I'd argue every point with him until his great big inflated head was chopped up in little pieces on the floor, but this guy's different; subtle. He thinks he's right because no one's ever had the heart to tell him he's so wrong. He's girlish and sensitive, and, much like the English Teacher on Daria, I expect he'd cry if I got confrontational about his unwarranted loyalty to archaic rules of English. Little girly tears.
In the end, it's this image, and not his attempts to win my favor with his frail, apologetic charm that keep me from ripping him apart on my evaluation. I am, by no standards, kind, but I don't go as far as I'd like to: I get a cramp from disguising my handwriting and become nauseous by writing all my complaints in simple, undeveloped sentences which serve both to hide my identity and make my point about his teaching deficiencies. (Teacher is not present in class. Teacher does not help student(s) understand. Teacher grades strict!! :-[ :-[ :-[ !!!)
Take that, Professor Elsewhere!
After we're finished with that and, in a shocking turn of events, he still hasn't returned from the room, Irene, who sits behind me to the right starts up a conversation. She is forty-ish, heavy-set and tries harder to voice her frustrations than many of others. She reminds me a lot of my mother, and the one essay I peer-edited for her didn't make me want to kick the educational system of America square in the crotch. That's always a plus.
She had made a point to comment to me, when I handed it back, how grateful she was that I put real time and effort into the corrections I made, and while this should have made me feel good, it gave me a feeling of uneasiness and doubt: it wasn't real time, it wasn't real effort. It was the same ease I've always had with everything, the sheer ability to do what is assigned. Knowing I can do whatever's out there should, one would think, make me want to do it, but it's always had the opposite affect of making me lazy, realizing I can get by with less effort than others. If only I'd had a Ben Affleck-character telling me it's my duty to succeed, in debt to the people who work as hard as they can, only to achieve far less than I could with the slightest effort. (IE Goodwill Hunting, in case you didn't get the reference.)
Irene is telling me she'd love to read some of my stuff. She is asking me if I will transfer after this class is over, telling me I should go to a university that can really foster my talents (but not in such big words.) The surrounding students agree that they notice the ease with which I speak, write, and learn. They are calling me gifted. I am telling them they should see me in an algebra class, I wouldn't seem so gifted then. (I carefully leave out that I've only failed what I didn't try. I leave out that in every assessment test I've ever taken, the results clearly spell out that I could do whatever I wanted to, succeed at anything.) I tell them it's not all it's cracked up to be to be gifted. This part, I mean.
Irene is asking why I'm in the paralegal studies program. She tells me I should be writing. This idea I've been struggling with in and out for years, moreso since last Thursday, when Zack and I visited SMCC. It was simple, but beautiful in all it's Not-Andover-ness. It had multiple buildings, a student lounge, electives and classes about art and literature and things I care about. Realistically, though, I'd have to re-route my life entirely to pursue this. I'd have to find a way to support myself while attending school full time (more full time). I'd have to completely screw up my work schedule and comp the paralegal credits I've already earned. I'd have to, you know, do something.
And, as mentioned before, that's just not something I do.
Irene is telling me I'm a great writer. Irene is telling me that the teacher's seen a lot of students, and if he's singled me out, that must mean something.
There is no good way to tell her that I'm only the big fish because this is such a fucking insignificant pond. There is no good way to tell her that I know, off the top of my head, twenty people who can already write better than me, it's just that they're all elsewhere, taking the right paths, doing the right things, going to the right schools. There's no good way to bring it to her attention that this is the bottom of the barrel. I can't just tell her I only seem like a shark because she's a tadpole.
So I smile and turn forward again. A real writer would have found a way to say it.
On with it.
Monday, May 09, 2005
My younger cousin Michaela, who many of you have met and therefore know to be one of the coolest chicas of her age around, now has an online journal. This makes me feel very, very old. On this online journal, she mentions (with no regard to grammar or proper paragraph structure whatsoever, I might add) that her mother has banned her from going to the gym until her report card, which currently consists of three A's and two B's, is "acceptable".
What?
Acceptable? I don't know if she's kept records on the other kids in the family's grades (my mom's side), but that's pretty amazing by our standards. This kind of perfectionism makes me wonder if all these years that I thought my aunt was easy-going, she was really judging me.
And why ban going to the Gym when there are so many less healthy, productive things to ban?
But this is of no interest to any of you, so I'll move on to some commercials of note:
Best commercials currently on television:
The Bowling Alley T-Mobile prepaid commercial, wherein a bunch of diminutive rappers try to sell some minutes from a dubious provider (IE Boost Mobile, a company that tries to push it's services with a commercial that's reminiscient of a Rap Video, but tells one absolutely nothing about rates or service), and the much taller, much brighter consumer says "You guys are clowns", to which they respond with some hip-hop noises, my favorite being, "wicca wicca wicca."
If you haven't seen it, I'm sure I haven't painted a very good picture for you. This makes me long for a site that airs popular commercials for free. AdCritic.com charges 99 dollars a year, and while this fee includes a subscription to some kind of art magazine, it's still more than I'm willing to pay to watch commercials.
T-Mobile, apparently, gave some air time to a gay couple in a commercial pushing their "couples talk free" campaign. While it was less than a second, apparently this was well received by the gay community. As sweet as this all is, there's one little short-coming I have to point out: While T-Mobile's attempt to evoke feelings of sentimentality while pointing out that with their plan, you can talk free to your girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, wife, same-sex partner, roommate, or anyone else with the same billing address leaves the 900 thousand customers they've converted with this campaign with an "Aah, that's so sweet!" feeling, it doesn't take a genious to figure out that you can do the same goddamn thing with Verizon, with whom you can talk to any fellow Verizon wireless customer for free.
For most of us, it's a lot better deal to be able to talk for free to any one of hundreds of millions of people rather than just who you're sleeping with. This is probably why Paris Hilton's a T-Mobile girl.
Wa-waaaa.
My other favorite commercial as of late is the AOL commercial where the lady brings the AOL employee her famous Apple Crumb Cake or whatever it is. The way she says "Identity theft" is freaking adorable!
Where did they get this lady? She's great.
Man. So much writing, so little substance.
I'm sick, I've already worked today, and I just finished a crap paper for a crap class. I shouldn't have tried tonight. My apologies.
On with it.
What?
Acceptable? I don't know if she's kept records on the other kids in the family's grades (my mom's side), but that's pretty amazing by our standards. This kind of perfectionism makes me wonder if all these years that I thought my aunt was easy-going, she was really judging me.
And why ban going to the Gym when there are so many less healthy, productive things to ban?
But this is of no interest to any of you, so I'll move on to some commercials of note:
Best commercials currently on television:
The Bowling Alley T-Mobile prepaid commercial, wherein a bunch of diminutive rappers try to sell some minutes from a dubious provider (IE Boost Mobile, a company that tries to push it's services with a commercial that's reminiscient of a Rap Video, but tells one absolutely nothing about rates or service), and the much taller, much brighter consumer says "You guys are clowns", to which they respond with some hip-hop noises, my favorite being, "wicca wicca wicca."
If you haven't seen it, I'm sure I haven't painted a very good picture for you. This makes me long for a site that airs popular commercials for free. AdCritic.com charges 99 dollars a year, and while this fee includes a subscription to some kind of art magazine, it's still more than I'm willing to pay to watch commercials.
T-Mobile, apparently, gave some air time to a gay couple in a commercial pushing their "couples talk free" campaign. While it was less than a second, apparently this was well received by the gay community. As sweet as this all is, there's one little short-coming I have to point out: While T-Mobile's attempt to evoke feelings of sentimentality while pointing out that with their plan, you can talk free to your girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, wife, same-sex partner, roommate, or anyone else with the same billing address leaves the 900 thousand customers they've converted with this campaign with an "Aah, that's so sweet!" feeling, it doesn't take a genious to figure out that you can do the same goddamn thing with Verizon, with whom you can talk to any fellow Verizon wireless customer for free.
For most of us, it's a lot better deal to be able to talk for free to any one of hundreds of millions of people rather than just who you're sleeping with. This is probably why Paris Hilton's a T-Mobile girl.
Wa-waaaa.
My other favorite commercial as of late is the AOL commercial where the lady brings the AOL employee her famous Apple Crumb Cake or whatever it is. The way she says "Identity theft" is freaking adorable!
Where did they get this lady? She's great.
Man. So much writing, so little substance.
I'm sick, I've already worked today, and I just finished a crap paper for a crap class. I shouldn't have tried tonight. My apologies.
On with it.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Tonight, Family Guy came back on the air after a long and painful hiatus. With a very strong opening scene in grand Fox self-deprecating style, adequate innuendo and a "Wow, I can't believe they went there moment" involving Pinnochio, I'd say the episode held up against the inflated expectations of an eager and critical fan base.
And how did they do this? How, after years of mounting tension and strained hope did the show manage to maintain the magic it's always had, against all odds? Simple. They've outsourced the crappiness to American Dad.
Seth MacFarlane's second attempt at gold is striking a big fat brass with most of his fans-- the politically charged show is teetering precariously between being an extension of Family Guy and being it's own show-- while the animation style is identical, and the magical Six-figure family formula is followed, (Father, Mother, Boy, Girl, two X factors, which in Family Guy are represented by the wildly successful choice of a talking alcoholic dog and an eloquent and evil infant, replaced in American Dad by a somewhat promising sexually ambiguous alien and the TOTAL, total failure of a once-German-Olympian-turned-womanizing-Goldfish, ugh.) the show has veered away towards the format of anything-can-and-will happen plots, digression and non-sequiturs that have brought Family Guy that extra mile.
Is this a good choice or a bad choice?
My feeling is that this is the creator's attempt to keep the show seperate and hold some things sacred. Again, it must be difficult for them to walk this line, and while a demanding public may not yet appreciate American Dad for what it is, one must realize that if it had been any more closely related to the original show, we all would have simultaneously called them on it.
The bottom line? I think it'll tank, in the end. But, BUT! I think we owe it to Seth and everyone else involved to give them the benefit of the doubt and tune in until that time. Soulless rip-off though it may well be, it may also find it's own way. And if not, well, hell, what else is there to watch? The Simpsons?
I'm afraid Fox's self-deprecating humor has stretched itself a litte too thin for that.
On with it.
And how did they do this? How, after years of mounting tension and strained hope did the show manage to maintain the magic it's always had, against all odds? Simple. They've outsourced the crappiness to American Dad.
Seth MacFarlane's second attempt at gold is striking a big fat brass with most of his fans-- the politically charged show is teetering precariously between being an extension of Family Guy and being it's own show-- while the animation style is identical, and the magical Six-figure family formula is followed, (Father, Mother, Boy, Girl, two X factors, which in Family Guy are represented by the wildly successful choice of a talking alcoholic dog and an eloquent and evil infant, replaced in American Dad by a somewhat promising sexually ambiguous alien and the TOTAL, total failure of a once-German-Olympian-turned-womanizing-Goldfish, ugh.) the show has veered away towards the format of anything-can-and-will happen plots, digression and non-sequiturs that have brought Family Guy that extra mile.
Is this a good choice or a bad choice?
My feeling is that this is the creator's attempt to keep the show seperate and hold some things sacred. Again, it must be difficult for them to walk this line, and while a demanding public may not yet appreciate American Dad for what it is, one must realize that if it had been any more closely related to the original show, we all would have simultaneously called them on it.
The bottom line? I think it'll tank, in the end. But, BUT! I think we owe it to Seth and everyone else involved to give them the benefit of the doubt and tune in until that time. Soulless rip-off though it may well be, it may also find it's own way. And if not, well, hell, what else is there to watch? The Simpsons?
I'm afraid Fox's self-deprecating humor has stretched itself a litte too thin for that.
On with it.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
"Tonight you'll be writing a narrative for homework. Who here knows what a narrative is?"
There's a full minute of dead silence, my classmates glancing at each other for the answers, before I bitterly mumble, not removing my forehead from it's crashed, "why me?" position on the desk, "A story."
"That's RIGHT! A story! For next class, I want a narrative paragraph on at least two hundred words."
And that was the whole explanation.
Because my brain hurt so badly from the day's lecture, I didn't think to ask-- does he want a story or a paragraph? Surely a good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end; most of the time, that constitutes at least three seperate paragraphs.
This isn't something my classmates will worry about-- a single paragraph on the women behind me's gall-bladder operation isn't something that would be prettied-up any by proper structure, and most of the front row doesn't even know what a paragraph is. But for me, it's the princple of the damn thing.
The reason he wanted a "narrative paragraph" is that the College English Syllabus doesn't consider the narrative format important enough to dedicate an essay to, not in Professor Elsewhere's class, at any rate. Still, pick one or the other, genius.
I may be wrong. There may be some instruction in the text book that he referenced about the time I was biting my own arm to distract myself from the pain of hearing him teach. But I'm not about to spend my time looking for it. Not time that could be spent clotting.
I skipped on Tuesday, when it was due, and have, tonight, resigned myself to the following sentiment, as I shared with Jeremey.
MidnightShaman7: Does it even have to be a story?
MidnightShaman7: Or just a narrative?
FieryGwenivere: I honestly don't think it matters.
FieryGwenivere: Professor Elsewhere is gonna be so tired of grading everyone else's drivel that he'll probably have an orgasm just reading a coherent sentence.
FieryGwenivere: Maybe (I'm having trouble writing it because) I just don't want to give him the satisfaction
MidnightShaman7: Good to know your ego has survived the falling out.
FieryGwenivere: It's not thinking I'm great, it's knowing they suck.
That dillemna somewhat behind me, I wrote the following. Who needs an A, anyway? He's enough of one for all of us.
---
I got here an hour ago and already I look at the door and have to will my feet not to run towards it. We're three crew members short today and the lines are long. No one tells you this growing up, and I'm pretty sure it's not in the bible, but if you're thinking fire and brimstone, you're wrong. Hell is all grills and frialators.
There were supposed to be eight of us through lunch. The store manager left early on the count of her lesbian lover getting test results back from some clinic, and the guy working the sandwich board walked out on us, I'm told nobody knows why. Another worker was a no-show altogether, and I walked in at 10:30 to the mixed reception of panic, urgency, and a mild relief that at least someone had come in, something had gone right. It's me and Leah, the cashiers, two different Josh's working three different stations in the back and Laura, the shift manager, running back and forth between us like a hamster in an aquarium, shouting "No tomatoes on that number two!" to the back and "Three Double Cheeses and a number six? Hello? HELLO?" towards the herd of customers, waving their bag of food angrily.
The five of us deal with the infinity of them as best we can, and I'm beginning to resign myself to this, even feel comfortable, when the others start dropping like flies. Josh number one is out at 11:30. Leah at 12. Josh number two is supposed to go at one, but he holds out till 1:15, and leaves during our day's first lull.
And then there were two.
At three o'clock, John is supposed to come in, and I joke to Laura that once he comes in and lunch has ended, things might return to relative normalcy. At 3:05, 3:10, 3:15 and still no sign of him, I start to realize that one should never tempt fate.
"John not showing up is everything we don't need to happen right now." I say to Laura, as I make a sundae and she pours a coffee. "You think we're being punished for something?"
"Yeah." She says. "I never should have told my sister she was adopted when we were little."
"And I never should have run down those orphans with my car." I agree.
It's 3:30 and we're both hoping against hope that John got caught in traffic and he'll make it through that door anytime. We manage through two more rushes, and I begin to silently repent.
They never tell you this, but this is hell. This is where you go if you don't listen to your parents and do your homework. Honor thy Mother and Math Tutor. This is where you go if you shrug off a book report, don't read the chapters assigned, don't apply to a back-up school. This is where you'll end up if you’re a good student turned bad, and listening to the word of God won't get you out of it. You've got to listen to your guidance counselor.
It's four o'clock and Laura's tried to reach John at home. No sign of him. Good riddance. Don't need him. Mary's due in an hour, and lunch is officially over. The lobby is empty and there's no reason for it to get busy anymore. No reason, barring some horrible twist of fate.
That's when I see him, the shape of him in the door, a black silhouette against the brightness of a world that I've come to accept may be something I’ll never experience again. In his hand, I see a piece of paper, the type of paper that a large group of people write their large list of requests on, so that the single person representing them won't leave anything out. The type of list that spells doom .
As he walks toward me, I tremble. The figure walks toward me with the terror-striking gait of an old western sheriff, and with each step I could swear I hear the jingle of his spurs. As he comes into the light, I see his face. He is terrifying. He is evil. He is nine years old.
He looks towards me, then down at the list, then back and me. Pull yourself together, I tell myself. He stares, confused, and I know he's never done this before. He'll stutter and backpedal. It'll take him ten minutes to get through the list of requests, and at the end he'll have forgotten to mention who wants sodas and who wants milkshakes. I feel like I'm going to crack, but I control myself. I swallow hard, and I give him that winning fast-food smile.
"Welcome to McDonald's, what can I do for you, young man?"
That's what comes out of my mouth, but he sees in my eyes what I'm really saying: Go ahead, Punk. Make my day.
---
On with it.
There's a full minute of dead silence, my classmates glancing at each other for the answers, before I bitterly mumble, not removing my forehead from it's crashed, "why me?" position on the desk, "A story."
"That's RIGHT! A story! For next class, I want a narrative paragraph on at least two hundred words."
And that was the whole explanation.
Because my brain hurt so badly from the day's lecture, I didn't think to ask-- does he want a story or a paragraph? Surely a good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end; most of the time, that constitutes at least three seperate paragraphs.
This isn't something my classmates will worry about-- a single paragraph on the women behind me's gall-bladder operation isn't something that would be prettied-up any by proper structure, and most of the front row doesn't even know what a paragraph is. But for me, it's the princple of the damn thing.
The reason he wanted a "narrative paragraph" is that the College English Syllabus doesn't consider the narrative format important enough to dedicate an essay to, not in Professor Elsewhere's class, at any rate. Still, pick one or the other, genius.
I may be wrong. There may be some instruction in the text book that he referenced about the time I was biting my own arm to distract myself from the pain of hearing him teach. But I'm not about to spend my time looking for it. Not time that could be spent clotting.
I skipped on Tuesday, when it was due, and have, tonight, resigned myself to the following sentiment, as I shared with Jeremey.
MidnightShaman7: Does it even have to be a story?
MidnightShaman7: Or just a narrative?
FieryGwenivere: I honestly don't think it matters.
FieryGwenivere: Professor Elsewhere is gonna be so tired of grading everyone else's drivel that he'll probably have an orgasm just reading a coherent sentence.
FieryGwenivere: Maybe (I'm having trouble writing it because) I just don't want to give him the satisfaction
MidnightShaman7: Good to know your ego has survived the falling out.
FieryGwenivere: It's not thinking I'm great, it's knowing they suck.
That dillemna somewhat behind me, I wrote the following. Who needs an A, anyway? He's enough of one for all of us.
---
I got here an hour ago and already I look at the door and have to will my feet not to run towards it. We're three crew members short today and the lines are long. No one tells you this growing up, and I'm pretty sure it's not in the bible, but if you're thinking fire and brimstone, you're wrong. Hell is all grills and frialators.
There were supposed to be eight of us through lunch. The store manager left early on the count of her lesbian lover getting test results back from some clinic, and the guy working the sandwich board walked out on us, I'm told nobody knows why. Another worker was a no-show altogether, and I walked in at 10:30 to the mixed reception of panic, urgency, and a mild relief that at least someone had come in, something had gone right. It's me and Leah, the cashiers, two different Josh's working three different stations in the back and Laura, the shift manager, running back and forth between us like a hamster in an aquarium, shouting "No tomatoes on that number two!" to the back and "Three Double Cheeses and a number six? Hello? HELLO?" towards the herd of customers, waving their bag of food angrily.
The five of us deal with the infinity of them as best we can, and I'm beginning to resign myself to this, even feel comfortable, when the others start dropping like flies. Josh number one is out at 11:30. Leah at 12. Josh number two is supposed to go at one, but he holds out till 1:15, and leaves during our day's first lull.
And then there were two.
At three o'clock, John is supposed to come in, and I joke to Laura that once he comes in and lunch has ended, things might return to relative normalcy. At 3:05, 3:10, 3:15 and still no sign of him, I start to realize that one should never tempt fate.
"John not showing up is everything we don't need to happen right now." I say to Laura, as I make a sundae and she pours a coffee. "You think we're being punished for something?"
"Yeah." She says. "I never should have told my sister she was adopted when we were little."
"And I never should have run down those orphans with my car." I agree.
It's 3:30 and we're both hoping against hope that John got caught in traffic and he'll make it through that door anytime. We manage through two more rushes, and I begin to silently repent.
They never tell you this, but this is hell. This is where you go if you don't listen to your parents and do your homework. Honor thy Mother and Math Tutor. This is where you go if you shrug off a book report, don't read the chapters assigned, don't apply to a back-up school. This is where you'll end up if you’re a good student turned bad, and listening to the word of God won't get you out of it. You've got to listen to your guidance counselor.
It's four o'clock and Laura's tried to reach John at home. No sign of him. Good riddance. Don't need him. Mary's due in an hour, and lunch is officially over. The lobby is empty and there's no reason for it to get busy anymore. No reason, barring some horrible twist of fate.
That's when I see him, the shape of him in the door, a black silhouette against the brightness of a world that I've come to accept may be something I’ll never experience again. In his hand, I see a piece of paper, the type of paper that a large group of people write their large list of requests on, so that the single person representing them won't leave anything out. The type of list that spells doom .
As he walks toward me, I tremble. The figure walks toward me with the terror-striking gait of an old western sheriff, and with each step I could swear I hear the jingle of his spurs. As he comes into the light, I see his face. He is terrifying. He is evil. He is nine years old.
He looks towards me, then down at the list, then back and me. Pull yourself together, I tell myself. He stares, confused, and I know he's never done this before. He'll stutter and backpedal. It'll take him ten minutes to get through the list of requests, and at the end he'll have forgotten to mention who wants sodas and who wants milkshakes. I feel like I'm going to crack, but I control myself. I swallow hard, and I give him that winning fast-food smile.
"Welcome to McDonald's, what can I do for you, young man?"
That's what comes out of my mouth, but he sees in my eyes what I'm really saying: Go ahead, Punk. Make my day.
---
On with it.
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