I think I must have jinxed myself last night. My glass is half-empty again... maybe more than half. The coaster is wet. A leak, perhaps?
Don't misunderstand; my weekend was truly refreshing. But like a good song, the Roman empire and Arrested Development, all good things must come to an end.
I had numerous wonderful conversations, several of them with my friend Henley (formerly known as Steven). It was good to talk about this and that and realize that there are other people who share some of the same feelings and experiences as me. But then on the drive home this afternoon, I had two and a half hours to reflect on a lot of things. In a lot of ways, I feel much more content than I have in a long time. And yet, reflecting on these discussions, I have come to realize that there is a lot about myself and my life that I am not content with.
I am a strong believer in the concept that we are all ultimately in control of our situation. Of course, there are elements we cannot predict or control, but how we cope with these is up to us. If you're not happy, do something about it. If you want a change, make one occur. Everyone has the right to feel unhappy or upset, but that can only last before so long before it becomes one's life. I don't want perpetual unhappiness to become my life.
As much as I would love to deny it, I am not very self-motivated at all. I seem to be waiting on some kind of external boost or something... but that's not going to happen. I need to follow my own advice. I have to initiate the boost. Bizarre though he may be, I think Patrick Wolf said it well: "Let no foot mark your ground / Let no hand hold you down." My own feet are marking my ground, and my own hands are holding me down. I can't let that happen! I hear you, Patrick! I was paying attention!
Looks like I need to find a new glass. I wonder where to look for one? I could also stand to find a new analogy.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
RAAH RAAAH RAA-AA-AAHH
Blog. Blog. Bloggity blog, DUMBLEDORE!
I am currently sitting in my dear friend Steven's dorm room, apparently attending an unannounced two-person blogging party. I know as I type this that Steven's post will most likely be substantially more thoughtful and insightful than mine. I don't really have anything specific to say, but I do feel like this is an interesting moment that I would like to record while the opportunity is presenting itself.
As this day draws to a close, I would like to say that this weekend has been quite satisfying. I began some new friendships and strengthened some old ones. I learned the difference between "who" and "whom." I was exposed to some crazy music. I attended a musical. I learned the correct nonsensical syllables in that Lady GaGa song. I tried bruschetta for the first time, and loved it. I witnessed the first snow of the year. I reminisced. I was mesmerized by something called a Panic Mouse. I got yelled at for saying "that" instead of "who." I had meaningful discussions about hopes, dreams, life, lifestyles, tears and fears. And television. Questions have been answered and feelings affirmed. I am, for the most part, content. I know that these things often have a nasty way of falling apart, but for now I'm just enjoying the general wellness of this moment.
As usual, my brain is all over the place and this entry is wrought with frivolity and blather. Sound and fury, signifying nothing. Well, something perhaps, but nothing that is easy for me to define in my current state of mind.
Well, shoot. I thought that Steven might be done composing his entry by the time I finished typing these thoughts. He's concentrating very hard, so I'll be patient and wait for him to finish before starting any conversation. Goodnight folks, and may your glass be half-full.
I am currently sitting in my dear friend Steven's dorm room, apparently attending an unannounced two-person blogging party. I know as I type this that Steven's post will most likely be substantially more thoughtful and insightful than mine. I don't really have anything specific to say, but I do feel like this is an interesting moment that I would like to record while the opportunity is presenting itself.
As this day draws to a close, I would like to say that this weekend has been quite satisfying. I began some new friendships and strengthened some old ones. I learned the difference between "who" and "whom." I was exposed to some crazy music. I attended a musical. I learned the correct nonsensical syllables in that Lady GaGa song. I tried bruschetta for the first time, and loved it. I witnessed the first snow of the year. I reminisced. I was mesmerized by something called a Panic Mouse. I got yelled at for saying "that" instead of "who." I had meaningful discussions about hopes, dreams, life, lifestyles, tears and fears. And television. Questions have been answered and feelings affirmed. I am, for the most part, content. I know that these things often have a nasty way of falling apart, but for now I'm just enjoying the general wellness of this moment.
As usual, my brain is all over the place and this entry is wrought with frivolity and blather. Sound and fury, signifying nothing. Well, something perhaps, but nothing that is easy for me to define in my current state of mind.
Well, shoot. I thought that Steven might be done composing his entry by the time I finished typing these thoughts. He's concentrating very hard, so I'll be patient and wait for him to finish before starting any conversation. Goodnight folks, and may your glass be half-full.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
I Saw The Sign
Hello, blog! It's been much too long.
I don't have anything groundbreakingly interesting to say today, but I did come to a realization that has been on my mind for a couple of hours now. I have to get it out of me or I might go insane.
As I was driving home from watching "Dexter" at my friend's house this evening, I saw one of those yellow "animal crossing" signs. This particular sign featured a horse with a supposedly human rider on its back (shown above).
Now why is it that the silhouette of the horse appears to be quite realistic, while the rider looks like a bathroom sign man? And not even a normal bathroom sign man... This dude is slouching and his arm is crazy-long. I mean here you've got this guy who we're used to seeing on school crossing signs, pedestrian crossing signs and bathroom signs, and it doesn't bother us at all that his head just mysteriously floats over his neckless upper body. When he's on his own or surrounded by other pedestrian lookalikes, nothing seems amiss. But suddenly he's riding Black Beauty, whose head is seemingly very much attached to his/her body, and something just feels wrong. If you looked at the shadow of this horse in real life, it would look like a legit horse, but if you were to look at the humanoid's shadow, you might freak out and call the Ghostbusters or something.
Now that I think about it, all animal crossing signs depict their animals' forms quite accurately. So why is it that we can get away with having freaky decapitated humans on signs, but sign animals have to look like they were traced straight out of Ranger Rick?
I'm going to try my hardest not to dwell on this.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Remember The Time
This entry has been a couple of weeks in the making... I've just needed some time to let my thoughts gather and settle. Yep... It's about Michael Jackson.
Let me go ahead and get this out of the way... It's sad about Billy Mays and Ms. Fawcett as well, but I just wasn't as familiar with them. I'm sure they were great. I would also like to throw in a little side note here before I get rolling. I know this will seem morbid, but I would also like to state here, for anyone who may read this if I should die for any reason, that I would like for Diana Ross' "If We Hold On Together" to be played at my funeral. All right, here we go.
Now, I believe it is very sad when anyone dies. Michael Jackson was a human like all of us, after all. But there's just something so devastating when someone beloved by millions passes away. Yes, he was a strange man with a strange appearance. Yes, he was an entertainer of dynamic proportions. But he was also a sibling, a son, a parent, and a friend. We should respect that about all people, famous and otherwise.
I was somewhat numb to everything people were saying during the days following his death, but I was troubled by the jokes and vulturous discussion of how much money his estate would make, how much of him was made of plastic, etc. And about that plastic thing-- does it really matter what he looked like? Was his odd appearance doing damage to you? Do you need others' approval to have the face you have? I didn't think so.
At first I didn't believe that he was even dead; rumors like that go around all the time and only about an eighth of them turn out to be true. It finally hit me several days later that this was the real deal.Suddenly something dumped a huge mixed bag of all kinds of unexpected emotions on me. I was shocked. I was in denial. I was sad. I was infuriated. I was irritated that so many people acted like they were Jackson's best friend and knew everything about him, and even more irritated by the plastic surgery and pedophilia jokes. I was a little disenchanted by the announcement of the upcoming televised memorial service.
The more I thought about it, the more I made peace with at least the part about the public memorial service. The majority of fans didn't know him in person, but I think we all felt like we did, so public was his private life. And he always talked about how important his fans were to him, and it is clear that he meant a lot to many and made a huge difference in countless people's lives and broke all kinds of barriers, so I don't feel like he would have minded his public getting some kind of closure to his grand career. And I suppose it only seems appropriate, in a way, that a life spent onstage should end onstage. I do still feel, however, that those close to him should be able to mourn him privately if they so choose, without newsfolk pestering them for statements and such. I also think it's a bit of a shame that his children are being thrust into the media so drastically after he spent the last however many years of his life trying to shield them from becoming news stories.
I didn't know the man personally or anything, but I know I have countless treasured memories that came to pass because of Jackson's work. My younger brother idolized him as a performer. I can see little 8-year-old Jake teaching himself to moonwalk with the sequined glove Mom made him. I remember watching Jackson's 2001 televised concert on tape with Jake over and over and over, making fun of the ridiculous "Heal The World" tribute and laughing at the woman in the front row who was so excited when Jackson appeared onstage that she looked like she was going to toss her dinner. I remember watching that concert and seeing Liza Minnelli for the first time, hearing Billy Gilman sing "Ben" and listening to my parents talk about how much they loved "Ben" as a song but not as a movie. I remember the four of us sitting around and trying to figure out what Michael Jackson video was the one where he smashes a car to pieces and then turns into a panther (we had this discussion again last week). "Thriller" was the only record album both of my parents already independently owned when they got married. We didn't really keep up with his tabloid life, but we were certainly fans of his work. To us, he was first and foremost an entertainer. And boy, were we entertained. I resisted for a while, but I have finally caved and joined the billions listening to their favorite MJ tracks as they go about their daily tasks. I can't help it... As much as I could try to deny it, his music has kind of been a big deal to me.
I am not a religious person by any means, but I have to say that I have experienced something almost spiritual through all of this hubbub. When I got home from class today I watched some of the memorial service, and felt very moved by what many had to say. And when Jennifer Hudson sang "Will You Be There," my personal favorite Michael Jackson song, I couldn't help but get a little choked up. When the recording of Michael speaking at the end of the song finally came, my room resembled the Hoover Dam breaking. I hadn't really thought of the song in such a serious context before. I was also very moved by Maya Angelou's poem "We Had Him."
There are people who claim to be glad he's dead, and they have the right to that opinion, but I think that it is most important for us to realize that we are all human, we are all flawed, we will all die, and our lives are all worth something. We don't have to like everyone around us, but everyone deserves respect. It is up to us to make the most of what we have, as we can never know how much time we have left here. We can all start with the man (or woman or whatever) in the mirror.
Let me go ahead and get this out of the way... It's sad about Billy Mays and Ms. Fawcett as well, but I just wasn't as familiar with them. I'm sure they were great. I would also like to throw in a little side note here before I get rolling. I know this will seem morbid, but I would also like to state here, for anyone who may read this if I should die for any reason, that I would like for Diana Ross' "If We Hold On Together" to be played at my funeral. All right, here we go.
Now, I believe it is very sad when anyone dies. Michael Jackson was a human like all of us, after all. But there's just something so devastating when someone beloved by millions passes away. Yes, he was a strange man with a strange appearance. Yes, he was an entertainer of dynamic proportions. But he was also a sibling, a son, a parent, and a friend. We should respect that about all people, famous and otherwise.
I was somewhat numb to everything people were saying during the days following his death, but I was troubled by the jokes and vulturous discussion of how much money his estate would make, how much of him was made of plastic, etc. And about that plastic thing-- does it really matter what he looked like? Was his odd appearance doing damage to you? Do you need others' approval to have the face you have? I didn't think so.
At first I didn't believe that he was even dead; rumors like that go around all the time and only about an eighth of them turn out to be true. It finally hit me several days later that this was the real deal.Suddenly something dumped a huge mixed bag of all kinds of unexpected emotions on me. I was shocked. I was in denial. I was sad. I was infuriated. I was irritated that so many people acted like they were Jackson's best friend and knew everything about him, and even more irritated by the plastic surgery and pedophilia jokes. I was a little disenchanted by the announcement of the upcoming televised memorial service.
The more I thought about it, the more I made peace with at least the part about the public memorial service. The majority of fans didn't know him in person, but I think we all felt like we did, so public was his private life. And he always talked about how important his fans were to him, and it is clear that he meant a lot to many and made a huge difference in countless people's lives and broke all kinds of barriers, so I don't feel like he would have minded his public getting some kind of closure to his grand career. And I suppose it only seems appropriate, in a way, that a life spent onstage should end onstage. I do still feel, however, that those close to him should be able to mourn him privately if they so choose, without newsfolk pestering them for statements and such. I also think it's a bit of a shame that his children are being thrust into the media so drastically after he spent the last however many years of his life trying to shield them from becoming news stories.
I didn't know the man personally or anything, but I know I have countless treasured memories that came to pass because of Jackson's work. My younger brother idolized him as a performer. I can see little 8-year-old Jake teaching himself to moonwalk with the sequined glove Mom made him. I remember watching Jackson's 2001 televised concert on tape with Jake over and over and over, making fun of the ridiculous "Heal The World" tribute and laughing at the woman in the front row who was so excited when Jackson appeared onstage that she looked like she was going to toss her dinner. I remember watching that concert and seeing Liza Minnelli for the first time, hearing Billy Gilman sing "Ben" and listening to my parents talk about how much they loved "Ben" as a song but not as a movie. I remember the four of us sitting around and trying to figure out what Michael Jackson video was the one where he smashes a car to pieces and then turns into a panther (we had this discussion again last week). "Thriller" was the only record album both of my parents already independently owned when they got married. We didn't really keep up with his tabloid life, but we were certainly fans of his work. To us, he was first and foremost an entertainer. And boy, were we entertained. I resisted for a while, but I have finally caved and joined the billions listening to their favorite MJ tracks as they go about their daily tasks. I can't help it... As much as I could try to deny it, his music has kind of been a big deal to me.
I am not a religious person by any means, but I have to say that I have experienced something almost spiritual through all of this hubbub. When I got home from class today I watched some of the memorial service, and felt very moved by what many had to say. And when Jennifer Hudson sang "Will You Be There," my personal favorite Michael Jackson song, I couldn't help but get a little choked up. When the recording of Michael speaking at the end of the song finally came, my room resembled the Hoover Dam breaking. I hadn't really thought of the song in such a serious context before. I was also very moved by Maya Angelou's poem "We Had Him."
There are people who claim to be glad he's dead, and they have the right to that opinion, but I think that it is most important for us to realize that we are all human, we are all flawed, we will all die, and our lives are all worth something. We don't have to like everyone around us, but everyone deserves respect. It is up to us to make the most of what we have, as we can never know how much time we have left here. We can all start with the man (or woman or whatever) in the mirror.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Sprout and the Bra
All right, if it wasn't official before, it's official now.
I am sick of commercials.
I'm sure no one really looks forward to commercial breaks on TV (unless the Super Bowl's on), but I've never really consciously thought about it until today.
Well okay, so I guess there are some commercials that I enjoy, like the McDonald's one with the singing fish and that one a few years back with the car falling to the center of the earth. Oh, and Nanerpus. I guess what I'm actually sick of is the fact that commercials like to ruin songs for me.
Several years back, I remember really enjoying the Jewel song "Intuition" (don't judge). I liked it for a solid year or so, and then it popped up in a female razor commercial. Now I have nothing against shaving or hygiene, but I don't need to picture women shaving their legs in a bathtub whenever I hear a song I like. I guess some people might feel the same way about those "Venus" commercials, but I never really cared for that song in the first place. Anyway, that was years ago, before I really had very many opinions.
All right, now flash forward to 2009. I've got opinions out the wazoo, so every little thing bothers me. Back in '08, I fell in love with a song by Joanna Newsom called "The Sprout and the Bean." If I was the type of person who makes annual top 10 lists of favorite songs, this one would definitely have been on mine for 2008. So one day while watching a recorded episode of "The Office," a commercial break occurred. I lifted the remote to fast-forward through it, but I heard "Sprout" playing and was momentarily mystified. Then I realized I was watching a bra commercial. Again, bras are a very important part of our culture, but they are one of the last things I want to think about while I'm listening to this soothing masterpiece.
So I guess I just wish commercials would just start composing their own original music, or at least choose songs I don't love. Or find a song that matches the commercial and doesn't make you feel weird about liking the song. Like that one car commercial from a few years ago with the rose petals and the Dirty Vegas song. I might not think "rose petals and cars" when I hear "Without You," but at least i'm not bombarded with images of female undergarments or leg-shaving.
UPDATE: Let's just go ahead and add Santogold's "Lights Out" to the list. Freaking Budweiser.
I am sick of commercials.
I'm sure no one really looks forward to commercial breaks on TV (unless the Super Bowl's on), but I've never really consciously thought about it until today.
Well okay, so I guess there are some commercials that I enjoy, like the McDonald's one with the singing fish and that one a few years back with the car falling to the center of the earth. Oh, and Nanerpus. I guess what I'm actually sick of is the fact that commercials like to ruin songs for me.
Several years back, I remember really enjoying the Jewel song "Intuition" (don't judge). I liked it for a solid year or so, and then it popped up in a female razor commercial. Now I have nothing against shaving or hygiene, but I don't need to picture women shaving their legs in a bathtub whenever I hear a song I like. I guess some people might feel the same way about those "Venus" commercials, but I never really cared for that song in the first place. Anyway, that was years ago, before I really had very many opinions.
All right, now flash forward to 2009. I've got opinions out the wazoo, so every little thing bothers me. Back in '08, I fell in love with a song by Joanna Newsom called "The Sprout and the Bean." If I was the type of person who makes annual top 10 lists of favorite songs, this one would definitely have been on mine for 2008. So one day while watching a recorded episode of "The Office," a commercial break occurred. I lifted the remote to fast-forward through it, but I heard "Sprout" playing and was momentarily mystified. Then I realized I was watching a bra commercial. Again, bras are a very important part of our culture, but they are one of the last things I want to think about while I'm listening to this soothing masterpiece.
So I guess I just wish commercials would just start composing their own original music, or at least choose songs I don't love. Or find a song that matches the commercial and doesn't make you feel weird about liking the song. Like that one car commercial from a few years ago with the rose petals and the Dirty Vegas song. I might not think "rose petals and cars" when I hear "Without You," but at least i'm not bombarded with images of female undergarments or leg-shaving.
UPDATE: Let's just go ahead and add Santogold's "Lights Out" to the list. Freaking Budweiser.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Decency, People!
Hello all (at this point, I don’t think anyone is actually reading any of this, but I can pretend)! I recently had the great pleasure of watching my brother in his high school production of the musical “The Scarlet Pimpernel.” Let me start by saying that despite a couple of catastrophic technical mishaps, I loved the show all three times I saw it.
And now for the downside.
The first two nights I was in attendance, the audience was very mature and respectful. But last night, I almost blew a casket. Firstly, someone brought a baby. And we’re not talking a quiet baby. A quite loud baby. It’s one thing to bring a small child into the theater when free babysitting is offered across the hall, but a baby? I can understand not wanting to leave your baby in the hands of a high school girl you don’t know, but honestly – What do you do with your baby when you go to work? I have a feeling you don’t keep him in your desk drawer all day.
But I can’t really blame the baby. At least the baby isn’t really able to control itself. I would think parents would be able to keep themselves under control, but alas, it seems that this is not the case. A family in front of me was obviously related to one of the performers, because every time he was onstage, they would whip out their phones and take videos of him, and shout “That’s my boy!” during applause. And yet this is still not the most unbelievable offense to me. At least they waited until the right moment to make noise.
Several parents were taking pictures during the performance. And not silent phone pictures. At least the phone doesn’t make noise when you press “record.” These people brought their big nice photo cameras, complete with extra-large zoom lenses. Not only do you get that initial sound of the camera beeping as it focuses, but you also get the freakishly loud sound of the shutter in action. It would have been one thing to snap a picture or two during applause when no one is really going to notice, but I guess that wasn’t enough. We have to click loudly during tender dramatic scenes and important plot points. Would you take pictures in a movie theater? I mean, it’s illegal there too, but at least you’re not going to distract Brad Pitt and ruin the moment. And it’s not like I can buy the DVD when it comes out to hear what important details I missed while your shutter was going off in my ear.
I understand that a high school play has a primarily parental audience. I understand that you’re proud of your little performer(s) and you want to remember this night forever. But I would think you would also want to refrain from distracting your kid and ruining the show. I was this close to turning and saying something between scenes, but I didn’t want to turn into “that guy.” But honestly, a part of me really wished I had telekinetic powers like Matilda so I could blow their cameras up with my mind, or that one of the actors would go all Patti LuPone on these people. I talked to Mom about it at intermission, and she said this was how it always was in the audience at our theatre. Rude.
What a sad state of affairs we’re in.
And now for the downside.
The first two nights I was in attendance, the audience was very mature and respectful. But last night, I almost blew a casket. Firstly, someone brought a baby. And we’re not talking a quiet baby. A quite loud baby. It’s one thing to bring a small child into the theater when free babysitting is offered across the hall, but a baby? I can understand not wanting to leave your baby in the hands of a high school girl you don’t know, but honestly – What do you do with your baby when you go to work? I have a feeling you don’t keep him in your desk drawer all day.
But I can’t really blame the baby. At least the baby isn’t really able to control itself. I would think parents would be able to keep themselves under control, but alas, it seems that this is not the case. A family in front of me was obviously related to one of the performers, because every time he was onstage, they would whip out their phones and take videos of him, and shout “That’s my boy!” during applause. And yet this is still not the most unbelievable offense to me. At least they waited until the right moment to make noise.
Several parents were taking pictures during the performance. And not silent phone pictures. At least the phone doesn’t make noise when you press “record.” These people brought their big nice photo cameras, complete with extra-large zoom lenses. Not only do you get that initial sound of the camera beeping as it focuses, but you also get the freakishly loud sound of the shutter in action. It would have been one thing to snap a picture or two during applause when no one is really going to notice, but I guess that wasn’t enough. We have to click loudly during tender dramatic scenes and important plot points. Would you take pictures in a movie theater? I mean, it’s illegal there too, but at least you’re not going to distract Brad Pitt and ruin the moment. And it’s not like I can buy the DVD when it comes out to hear what important details I missed while your shutter was going off in my ear.
I understand that a high school play has a primarily parental audience. I understand that you’re proud of your little performer(s) and you want to remember this night forever. But I would think you would also want to refrain from distracting your kid and ruining the show. I was this close to turning and saying something between scenes, but I didn’t want to turn into “that guy.” But honestly, a part of me really wished I had telekinetic powers like Matilda so I could blow their cameras up with my mind, or that one of the actors would go all Patti LuPone on these people. I talked to Mom about it at intermission, and she said this was how it always was in the audience at our theatre. Rude.
What a sad state of affairs we’re in.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
No Song Unsung, No Wine Untasted
All right... This entry will probably be a little different from any so far. Today was pretty calm, but I was just exposed to something that really got me worked up, and I felt I should write about it to get it out of my system before I go to bed.
During my conversation with my mother when she got home from work, Mom told me about this story she saw on the news, and I was intrigued. She just told me to look up this woman's name (Susan Boyle) online and I'd find what she was talking about. So I did as she said and found a clip from "Britain's Got Talent."
So this woman comes out and introduces herself as Susan Boyle, aged 47. This woman is not what most would call physically attractive (even my mother compared her to the bowing lady toward the end of "The Sound of Music"). This woman says she dreams of being a professional singer. The audience snickers and gapes at her with disgust and disapproval. Even the judges give her some pretty ugly looks when she reveals her age and ambitions. The woman hasn't even performed yet, and my heart is just aching at the theater's response to her presence.
Finally, after this dismaying prologue, Ms. Boyle begins to sing. It's "I Dreamed a Dream" from "Les Miserables," and it is absolutely beautiful. As she sings, they show the audience. Jaws are on the floor. She gets a standing ovation after the first few bars. Spontaneous applause erupts throughout the whole song. The audience can't help but get involved, so moving and unexpected is this performance. And as she finished the last heartwrenching notes, tears were streaming down my face as I sat in front of my computer screen.
Now I'm sure the editors of the show have been careful to manipulate me into feeling this way, but this knowledge does not undo the fact that I felt so emotionally invested in this act. This woman has touched my soul, and there's nothing I can do about it. And I thought to myself, "this woman has done such a brave thing in getting up there and doing this."
And then I thought about it. Why should she have to be braver than anyone else? It takes a lot of courage to get up and sing in front of thousands of people (plus countless home viewers) no matter how old you are or what you look like, and we love to encourage performers to do well. And yet this audience seemed to be against this lady from the moment she walked out onstage! Why? Because she wasn't young or young-looking. She wasn't made up all fancy. Her clothes were nothing flashy. She wasn't skinny. She wasn't glamorous. Why should these things matter in a talent competition?
I don't think they should. I'm watching "Britain's Got Talent," not "Britain's Got Hotties." I guess the judges' reactions support my feelings, because all three (even Simon) each gave Susan Boyle a resounding "YES." I just think it's sad that we had to be surprised into realizing that someone who is over 40 and isn't Madonna can actually be a talented performer. I am also reminded of Julia Child, who revolutionized the way our nation thinks about cooking, despite her ungainly personage and unusual way of speaking.
I think every human being has something to offer this world, and we do ourselves a great disservice by focusing only on judging appearances and knocking other people down. Let's do ourselves and the world a huge favor and not do that anymore! And as for Susan Boyle, let's not kill the dream she dreams.
Whew, glad I got that off my chest... Goodnight world!
During my conversation with my mother when she got home from work, Mom told me about this story she saw on the news, and I was intrigued. She just told me to look up this woman's name (Susan Boyle) online and I'd find what she was talking about. So I did as she said and found a clip from "Britain's Got Talent."
So this woman comes out and introduces herself as Susan Boyle, aged 47. This woman is not what most would call physically attractive (even my mother compared her to the bowing lady toward the end of "The Sound of Music"). This woman says she dreams of being a professional singer. The audience snickers and gapes at her with disgust and disapproval. Even the judges give her some pretty ugly looks when she reveals her age and ambitions. The woman hasn't even performed yet, and my heart is just aching at the theater's response to her presence.
Finally, after this dismaying prologue, Ms. Boyle begins to sing. It's "I Dreamed a Dream" from "Les Miserables," and it is absolutely beautiful. As she sings, they show the audience. Jaws are on the floor. She gets a standing ovation after the first few bars. Spontaneous applause erupts throughout the whole song. The audience can't help but get involved, so moving and unexpected is this performance. And as she finished the last heartwrenching notes, tears were streaming down my face as I sat in front of my computer screen.
Now I'm sure the editors of the show have been careful to manipulate me into feeling this way, but this knowledge does not undo the fact that I felt so emotionally invested in this act. This woman has touched my soul, and there's nothing I can do about it. And I thought to myself, "this woman has done such a brave thing in getting up there and doing this."
And then I thought about it. Why should she have to be braver than anyone else? It takes a lot of courage to get up and sing in front of thousands of people (plus countless home viewers) no matter how old you are or what you look like, and we love to encourage performers to do well. And yet this audience seemed to be against this lady from the moment she walked out onstage! Why? Because she wasn't young or young-looking. She wasn't made up all fancy. Her clothes were nothing flashy. She wasn't skinny. She wasn't glamorous. Why should these things matter in a talent competition?
I don't think they should. I'm watching "Britain's Got Talent," not "Britain's Got Hotties." I guess the judges' reactions support my feelings, because all three (even Simon) each gave Susan Boyle a resounding "YES." I just think it's sad that we had to be surprised into realizing that someone who is over 40 and isn't Madonna can actually be a talented performer. I am also reminded of Julia Child, who revolutionized the way our nation thinks about cooking, despite her ungainly personage and unusual way of speaking.
I think every human being has something to offer this world, and we do ourselves a great disservice by focusing only on judging appearances and knocking other people down. Let's do ourselves and the world a huge favor and not do that anymore! And as for Susan Boyle, let's not kill the dream she dreams.
Whew, glad I got that off my chest... Goodnight world!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Leaving On A [Non-Jet] Plane
So I'm at the airport right now, waiting to board my plane back to Kansas City. I've been here for several hours, as my ride could not drop me off later. Anyway, I've been shop-hopping to pass the time for the past hour or so. On a side note, I don't think I've ever seen so many pale, red-haired, freckly people all in one place before. It's kind of creepy, like that one episode of South Park.
But I digress. I've noticed this before, but today is the day I finally say something about it (thanks to the miracle of blogging). I don't get why magazines feel the need to occlude their titles with someone's face. True, I'm probably not going to pick a magazine up if there's not someone on the cover who interests me, but I also like to know what magazine I'm buying. And, being someone who doesn't read magazines very often, it's not like I can just tell what magazine I'm looking at by the corners of a first and last letter visible behind Gerard Butler's noggin.
It's like when you catch a movie on TV, but you miss the beginning. You might enjoy it, but you have no way of knowing what it is because you missed the title.
I guess in the long run, it doesn't even really matter. In most cases, you read things for their content, and not necessarily for their title. Or you should, anyway, I think. You may not know that movie's title, but at least you enjoyed it. Hopefully. Egh, whatever.
Haha, this seven-year-old-looking ginger kid next to me is talking to a handful of change and it's pretty funny... "I'm bigger than you, dime! I'm more valuable than all coins!"
All right... Peace out. It's airplane time!
But I digress. I've noticed this before, but today is the day I finally say something about it (thanks to the miracle of blogging). I don't get why magazines feel the need to occlude their titles with someone's face. True, I'm probably not going to pick a magazine up if there's not someone on the cover who interests me, but I also like to know what magazine I'm buying. And, being someone who doesn't read magazines very often, it's not like I can just tell what magazine I'm looking at by the corners of a first and last letter visible behind Gerard Butler's noggin.
It's like when you catch a movie on TV, but you miss the beginning. You might enjoy it, but you have no way of knowing what it is because you missed the title.
I guess in the long run, it doesn't even really matter. In most cases, you read things for their content, and not necessarily for their title. Or you should, anyway, I think. You may not know that movie's title, but at least you enjoyed it. Hopefully. Egh, whatever.
Haha, this seven-year-old-looking ginger kid next to me is talking to a handful of change and it's pretty funny... "I'm bigger than you, dime! I'm more valuable than all coins!"
All right... Peace out. It's airplane time!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Upgrade Upheaval.
I’m not sure I understand all this fuss about Blu-Ray. I understand it’s prettier, but no matter how flawlessly crystal-clear a movie is presented to me, I will still always know that I’m watching a movie. I feel much the same way about the recent return of the 3-D movie. It’s different, but I don’t really feel like I’m getting anything extra out of the experience.
And let’s face it, DVD is not really bad quality. True, it’s less crisp, but it’s crisp enough, I’d say. And honestly, how crispy do you need a movie to be? It’s not a Dorito, for crying out loud! And unlike VHS (a truly inferior format, in my opinion), DVD’s quality does not degrade over time. It starts good and it stays good until you scratch it up or break it. Blu-Ray is basically the same, only it costs more and looks 1% better on giant TVs.
I think there comes a point where we’ve gone about as far as we can go and we feel we need to make excuses to market something new. We’ve already made two or three DVD releases of practically every film ever produced, so I guess there’s nowhere to go but up. The same goes for video game systems. Where do we go after the Nintendo 64? Gamecube, 128-bit graphics. That's about as good as it gets, so what's next? The Wii. It's exactly the same, only now you can wave your arms around too.
Until Blu-Ray replaces DVD in all the stores, I for one cannot see myself feeling the need to buy anything on Blu-Ray. I’ve spent the last 10 years gathering my massive DVD collection, and I’m not about to start going through and replacing each movie I own with a SLIGHTLY higher quality version. I did it once when VHS went out, but until something truly mind-blowing comes along to replace DVD, I refuse to jump on this bandwagon.
I think my friend Teri said it best: "It [a good movie] should make you cry and vomit while you’re on a greyhound bus next to a smelly Asian with no teeth and a screaming baby with a crackhead mother. If it can do that, then it’s an amazing movie. Not if freak technology makes it that way in the comfort of your own home."
Amen, Teri. Amen.
And let’s face it, DVD is not really bad quality. True, it’s less crisp, but it’s crisp enough, I’d say. And honestly, how crispy do you need a movie to be? It’s not a Dorito, for crying out loud! And unlike VHS (a truly inferior format, in my opinion), DVD’s quality does not degrade over time. It starts good and it stays good until you scratch it up or break it. Blu-Ray is basically the same, only it costs more and looks 1% better on giant TVs.
I think there comes a point where we’ve gone about as far as we can go and we feel we need to make excuses to market something new. We’ve already made two or three DVD releases of practically every film ever produced, so I guess there’s nowhere to go but up. The same goes for video game systems. Where do we go after the Nintendo 64? Gamecube, 128-bit graphics. That's about as good as it gets, so what's next? The Wii. It's exactly the same, only now you can wave your arms around too.
Until Blu-Ray replaces DVD in all the stores, I for one cannot see myself feeling the need to buy anything on Blu-Ray. I’ve spent the last 10 years gathering my massive DVD collection, and I’m not about to start going through and replacing each movie I own with a SLIGHTLY higher quality version. I did it once when VHS went out, but until something truly mind-blowing comes along to replace DVD, I refuse to jump on this bandwagon.
I think my friend Teri said it best: "It [a good movie] should make you cry and vomit while you’re on a greyhound bus next to a smelly Asian with no teeth and a screaming baby with a crackhead mother. If it can do that, then it’s an amazing movie. Not if freak technology makes it that way in the comfort of your own home."
Amen, Teri. Amen.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
A Close Encounter of the Drive-Thru Kind
As I've mentioned before, and as anyone who knows me knows, I am addicted to chicken. So I'm sure it comes as no surprise that as soon as I moved to Orlando and discovered the wonders of Chick-Fil-A (we don't have these in Missouri), I became instantly hooked. It's killing me financially, but I go all the time. It's like sometimes I just wake up as if from a trance and don't know where I've been for the past hour, but I have a Chick-Fil-A bag in my lap and a Diet Dr. Pepper in a styrofoam cup in my cupholder.
Living in central Florida, you see some pretty unusual things and experience a lot of colorful characters. This is not to say that other places don't have interesting people, but the locals certainly seem particularly outlandish here. For me, Chick-Fil-A especially has provided the backdrop for several truly unforgettable encounters. I'm sure some of these folks will come up in later posts, but today I'm focusing on a more subtle observation I made yesterday.
So I'm driving home from Target and I have one of my weird lapses and before I know it, I've ordered a Number 3 Combo and I'm waiting in the drive-through line to pick it up. Chick-Fil-A seems to be especially busy today. It's usually a pretty hoppin' joint, but today, it's just packed. The line is very long. I have a bit of a wait ahead of me.
So I'm sitting there in my car, jamming out to The B-52's, watching people enter and exit the restaurant. Then the employee entrance door opens and a young, slim, black man emerges to take some trash to the dumpster, which is on the other side of the parking lot. (Note: this story has nothing to do with race, but I just thought I'd provide at least a little bit of detail.) Nothing seems unusual here until I notice that this man is wearing a hairnet. Now I understand that it is required of all employees in any restaurant kitchen to wear a hairnet, for reasons I completely agree with. I don't need to pull anyone's hair out of my mouth after chewing a handful of waffle fries. The thing that gets me is that this man is completely bald. Not a single hair on his head, save for his eyebrows, which are generally not covered by hairnets anyway.
Then I think to myself: Why did they make this man wear a hairnet? Were they afraid his hair would escape? Did they think his smooth scalp would flake into the boiling grease? If this is the case, then why aren't all fast food employees required to wear full-body latex suits and masks? This just seems like a harsh formality to me. Here, this guy's already bald, but let's slap a hairnet right on there in case anyone hadn't noticed he has no hair. Let's really play up the "bald" angle. Besides, the net will also cut some of that shine you get from that sleek dome of his.
Now he might have just been wearing it out of respect for policy. Maybe someone called him out on not wearing it earlier. Maybe there's actually a logical health code reason for requiring him to wear it. Maybe it was a fashion statement. I am fairly certain that only he knows for sure, but I know that if I am ever completely bald and working in fast food, I will put up a fight when they tell me to cover my bare scalp. Besides, that's one more hairnet for someone else. In this economy, I'm sure we don't need to be spending money on unnecessary hairnets.
Either way, I wish Chick-Fil-A was still open right now. Hmph.
Living in central Florida, you see some pretty unusual things and experience a lot of colorful characters. This is not to say that other places don't have interesting people, but the locals certainly seem particularly outlandish here. For me, Chick-Fil-A especially has provided the backdrop for several truly unforgettable encounters. I'm sure some of these folks will come up in later posts, but today I'm focusing on a more subtle observation I made yesterday.
So I'm driving home from Target and I have one of my weird lapses and before I know it, I've ordered a Number 3 Combo and I'm waiting in the drive-through line to pick it up. Chick-Fil-A seems to be especially busy today. It's usually a pretty hoppin' joint, but today, it's just packed. The line is very long. I have a bit of a wait ahead of me.
So I'm sitting there in my car, jamming out to The B-52's, watching people enter and exit the restaurant. Then the employee entrance door opens and a young, slim, black man emerges to take some trash to the dumpster, which is on the other side of the parking lot. (Note: this story has nothing to do with race, but I just thought I'd provide at least a little bit of detail.) Nothing seems unusual here until I notice that this man is wearing a hairnet. Now I understand that it is required of all employees in any restaurant kitchen to wear a hairnet, for reasons I completely agree with. I don't need to pull anyone's hair out of my mouth after chewing a handful of waffle fries. The thing that gets me is that this man is completely bald. Not a single hair on his head, save for his eyebrows, which are generally not covered by hairnets anyway.
Then I think to myself: Why did they make this man wear a hairnet? Were they afraid his hair would escape? Did they think his smooth scalp would flake into the boiling grease? If this is the case, then why aren't all fast food employees required to wear full-body latex suits and masks? This just seems like a harsh formality to me. Here, this guy's already bald, but let's slap a hairnet right on there in case anyone hadn't noticed he has no hair. Let's really play up the "bald" angle. Besides, the net will also cut some of that shine you get from that sleek dome of his.
Now he might have just been wearing it out of respect for policy. Maybe someone called him out on not wearing it earlier. Maybe there's actually a logical health code reason for requiring him to wear it. Maybe it was a fashion statement. I am fairly certain that only he knows for sure, but I know that if I am ever completely bald and working in fast food, I will put up a fight when they tell me to cover my bare scalp. Besides, that's one more hairnet for someone else. In this economy, I'm sure we don't need to be spending money on unnecessary hairnets.
Either way, I wish Chick-Fil-A was still open right now. Hmph.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
We Eat What We Like
All right, so while I was home a couple of weeks ago, my friend Annie introduced me to something I have never had before: Star Crunch.
Having been a diabetic child in the 90s, I am relatively unfamiliar with the strange and mysterious world of Little Debbie. I've had the occasional snack from this Debbie person, but nothing all that memorable, I suppose. Until Star Crunch.
So Annie gives me this Star Crunch cookie (?) thing in her car one evening, and I eat it. It is delicious. I decide that when I go back to my house in Florida, I'm going to get some of this stuff for my cabinet. And I do. I enjoy 3 or 4 of these odd chocolate rice crispy cookie things, and then something dawns on me. The name "Star Crunch" makes absolutely no sense. It even seems as though the makers have realized too that the name is nonsense; under "Star Crunch" they have added "Cosmic Snacks!"
I'm sorry, but calling something "cosmic" does not automatically give you the right to name it after a part of the solar system and expect no questions. The food has nothing to do with stars. Its texture does not resemble the stars, its color (brown) is far from starlike, Little Debbie herself is hardly star quality in the figurative sense... Shoot, it's not even shaped like a star. In fact, the only thing on the packaging that has anything to do with stars is the star-shaped "A" in the word "Star." What the hell? Come now, wee Deborah, show me the truth!
This whole ordeal reminds me of Apple Jacks. Don't get me wrong; I love Apple Jacks. Probably my 3rd favorite cereal after Count Chocula and Honey Bunches of Oats with Strawberries. But that's beside the point. I would totally be the dad in those commercials. You know, the downer one who complains about Apple Jacks being poorly named. The one who says, "How can you eat that? They don't taste like apple!" when I think the real concern should be "what in the name of all that is holy is a Jack, and why am I eating it?" But of course the children can just say "Shut up, Dad! We eat what we like!"
It took a long time, but I came to live with that. It might be good enough for Apple Jacks, but not for Star Crunch. Not yet.
Having been a diabetic child in the 90s, I am relatively unfamiliar with the strange and mysterious world of Little Debbie. I've had the occasional snack from this Debbie person, but nothing all that memorable, I suppose. Until Star Crunch.
So Annie gives me this Star Crunch cookie (?) thing in her car one evening, and I eat it. It is delicious. I decide that when I go back to my house in Florida, I'm going to get some of this stuff for my cabinet. And I do. I enjoy 3 or 4 of these odd chocolate rice crispy cookie things, and then something dawns on me. The name "Star Crunch" makes absolutely no sense. It even seems as though the makers have realized too that the name is nonsense; under "Star Crunch" they have added "Cosmic Snacks!"
I'm sorry, but calling something "cosmic" does not automatically give you the right to name it after a part of the solar system and expect no questions. The food has nothing to do with stars. Its texture does not resemble the stars, its color (brown) is far from starlike, Little Debbie herself is hardly star quality in the figurative sense... Shoot, it's not even shaped like a star. In fact, the only thing on the packaging that has anything to do with stars is the star-shaped "A" in the word "Star." What the hell? Come now, wee Deborah, show me the truth!
This whole ordeal reminds me of Apple Jacks. Don't get me wrong; I love Apple Jacks. Probably my 3rd favorite cereal after Count Chocula and Honey Bunches of Oats with Strawberries. But that's beside the point. I would totally be the dad in those commercials. You know, the downer one who complains about Apple Jacks being poorly named. The one who says, "How can you eat that? They don't taste like apple!" when I think the real concern should be "what in the name of all that is holy is a Jack, and why am I eating it?" But of course the children can just say "Shut up, Dad! We eat what we like!"
It took a long time, but I came to live with that. It might be good enough for Apple Jacks, but not for Star Crunch. Not yet.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Blog The First.
All right. I did it. I'm still unsure why. I don't know if it's because of all the Augusten Burroughs I've been reading, my intensifying internet addiction, some internal need to share my thoughts with the everyone on the world wide web, or pure boredom. I finally did it.
I made a blog.
Now that the deed has been done, I figure I might as well make the most of it. I try to be a glass half-full kind of guy whenever I can, and I'm in a good mood. Let's do this shiz.
My name is Michael and (as of today) I am 20 and a half years old (yes I still have half-birthdays. You know you're jealous). I have an insatiable addiction to Count Chocula and fried chicken. I listen to a ton of music (as I'm sure will come up in future posts) and like anyone else, I enjoy a good book or movie when I find the time to enjoy such things... which is pretty often now that I think about it (yeah, I also have this weird thing about parentheses).
I'm pretty introverted in a lot of ways, but when it comes right down to it, I'm a pretty sociable person. I get lonely easily and need others' company sometimes to stay comfortable with myself. But sometimes it's 1:30am and everyone around is asleep, causing me to do irrational things like binge out on Go-Gurt or (as I'm discovering) create a blog.
I guess I'll wrap this up for tonight. Apparently the Sandman dropped by without stopping to say hello to my face, but somehow found the time to make my eyelids heavy. What a jerk.
Onward and upward. See you later, bloggies.
-M-
I made a blog.
Now that the deed has been done, I figure I might as well make the most of it. I try to be a glass half-full kind of guy whenever I can, and I'm in a good mood. Let's do this shiz.
My name is Michael and (as of today) I am 20 and a half years old (yes I still have half-birthdays. You know you're jealous). I have an insatiable addiction to Count Chocula and fried chicken. I listen to a ton of music (as I'm sure will come up in future posts) and like anyone else, I enjoy a good book or movie when I find the time to enjoy such things... which is pretty often now that I think about it (yeah, I also have this weird thing about parentheses).
I'm pretty introverted in a lot of ways, but when it comes right down to it, I'm a pretty sociable person. I get lonely easily and need others' company sometimes to stay comfortable with myself. But sometimes it's 1:30am and everyone around is asleep, causing me to do irrational things like binge out on Go-Gurt or (as I'm discovering) create a blog.
I guess I'll wrap this up for tonight. Apparently the Sandman dropped by without stopping to say hello to my face, but somehow found the time to make my eyelids heavy. What a jerk.
Onward and upward. See you later, bloggies.
-M-
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