Hollywood has done it again - and this time it's been done with gusto.
That's right: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire has been taking America by storm, ravaging respectable movie theatres until they resemble nothing more than cheap daycare facilities with vomit and pee indelibly tattooed on the maroon carpets.
A fun night at the movies has been turned into a night of screaming babies, fidgety toddlers, and an excuse for 12 year olds to date, while their parents chaperone/chain smoke in the foyer.
So is the new Harry Potter worth the suffering? The answer: a resounding yes, followed by a "well, on second thought..."
While the movie does delve into the darker side of teen wizardry (Harry shows hints of developing a drug problem, and Hermione is well on the way to becoming a pregnant highschool drop-out), it continually lapses back into shallow stereotyping of the Wizard world. The black pointy hats, the long white beards, and the predictable giants all leave a little to be desired.
While the snappy special effects and hipster music do their part to redeem what is lacking in dialogue and plot, this Potter flick is ultimately just a sad attempt at making Wizardry cool again. Let's face it people: Gandalf, Dumbledore, and their Wizard cronies are on their way out, and there's nothing we can do about it.
So go America, stand in line for hours, sit behind a tall guy with a fro, and suffer through the incessant whinings of your neighborhood's children: because if I had to suffer through this, then so should you.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
The Friskies (2005)
The circuitous path of this two thousand and fifth year of our Lord is readily being traversed – the sands of time are quickly falling through the hole of that thing that holds the sand. Yes, it is almost six and two thousand.
In the spirit of remembrance and dead Indians, I submit the Friscalating Dusklight BlogAwards 2005 (The Friskies).
Best Review: Blue Like Jazz: A Review, C. Powell “This nationally syndicated review found its way to the pages of Christianity Today, the New York Times, Harper’s and even The Socialist Review. It’s impact is still being felt today as Donald Miller’s life has been rightly turned into a shambles and the only known copies remaining (that weren’t burned in the fires of our wrath) are in Cuba and Texas.” A. P. Rivell, PhD
Best Foreign Post: Whatever the crap Natalie posts when she condescends from her Spanish high horse. Seriously, Nat (If I can call you Nat), we have been waiting and waiting and now we are tired. We are tired of waiting! And you never e-mail…you never call. Sometimes I think of titles of posts you might be stewing over: “The Spanish and their many horses,” “Mino sounds like beano,” or “How many cocktails does it take for N. Smith to dance on the bar? Answer: none.” Please post soon.
Best Comment Appended to a Post: Donald Miller – “Like I give a damn what you think. I'm rich and I'm gay and I don't need you or your stupid book club's approval to feel good about myself.” Sheer Genius.
Best use of Profanity: City Daze pt. 1 ~ J.A. Klein, “Smoke little by little spilled from Maria’s pursed, red lips. “You’re a fuck-up, John,” was the last thing she spoke before turning to face the door, dropping her cigarette on the parquet floor...”
Best Poem: Papers Lay Heaped ~ A. Smith. “Smith’s portly poetry flows like ambrosia prose – satiating my lust and kissing my thoughts…It is the incarnation of ‘Yes, give me more.’” Wolcott Gibbs
Best Investigative Journalism: A Private Cleaning ~ J. Smith – “Jackie didn’t just observe peri-care, she became peri-care. I watched her as she brought in the alabaster flask and washed the elderly persons with her long flowing hair and tears. It was like music. Her post meant everything to me and more.” ~ Linda
Best Prose: The Continued Adventures of Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin ~ N. Smith. “Such lucid composition deserves much adulation, but we will give it none – who asked you to tell our story?!” ~ Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin
Best Overall Post: Death to Jacqueline A. ~ K. Bush. “What can be said about Ms. B-sh other than that I am unworthy to even mention her name so I hyphenate it. She is that good. Frankly, I am jealous, angry, and tired of being myself. Why can’t I be more like her? The felicity with which she adds letters to make words shames me. I am shamed. Shamed. Damn you, Ms. B-sh!” “Dr.” Kathy Greaves
In the spirit of remembrance and dead Indians, I submit the Friscalating Dusklight BlogAwards 2005 (The Friskies).
Best Review: Blue Like Jazz: A Review, C. Powell “This nationally syndicated review found its way to the pages of Christianity Today, the New York Times, Harper’s and even The Socialist Review. It’s impact is still being felt today as Donald Miller’s life has been rightly turned into a shambles and the only known copies remaining (that weren’t burned in the fires of our wrath) are in Cuba and Texas.” A. P. Rivell, PhD
Best Foreign Post: Whatever the crap Natalie posts when she condescends from her Spanish high horse. Seriously, Nat (If I can call you Nat), we have been waiting and waiting and now we are tired. We are tired of waiting! And you never e-mail…you never call. Sometimes I think of titles of posts you might be stewing over: “The Spanish and their many horses,” “Mino sounds like beano,” or “How many cocktails does it take for N. Smith to dance on the bar? Answer: none.” Please post soon.
Best Comment Appended to a Post: Donald Miller – “Like I give a damn what you think. I'm rich and I'm gay and I don't need you or your stupid book club's approval to feel good about myself.” Sheer Genius.
Best use of Profanity: City Daze pt. 1 ~ J.A. Klein, “Smoke little by little spilled from Maria’s pursed, red lips. “You’re a fuck-up, John,” was the last thing she spoke before turning to face the door, dropping her cigarette on the parquet floor...”
Best Poem: Papers Lay Heaped ~ A. Smith. “Smith’s portly poetry flows like ambrosia prose – satiating my lust and kissing my thoughts…It is the incarnation of ‘Yes, give me more.’” Wolcott Gibbs
Best Investigative Journalism: A Private Cleaning ~ J. Smith – “Jackie didn’t just observe peri-care, she became peri-care. I watched her as she brought in the alabaster flask and washed the elderly persons with her long flowing hair and tears. It was like music. Her post meant everything to me and more.” ~ Linda
Best Prose: The Continued Adventures of Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin ~ N. Smith. “Such lucid composition deserves much adulation, but we will give it none – who asked you to tell our story?!” ~ Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin
Best Overall Post: Death to Jacqueline A. ~ K. Bush. “What can be said about Ms. B-sh other than that I am unworthy to even mention her name so I hyphenate it. She is that good. Frankly, I am jealous, angry, and tired of being myself. Why can’t I be more like her? The felicity with which she adds letters to make words shames me. I am shamed. Shamed. Damn you, Ms. B-sh!” “Dr.” Kathy Greaves
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Just an idea
Get a bunch of your friends together, ring O. J. Simpson’s doorbell, and tell him that you are “the real killers” and that you are surrendering to him so that he can finally stop searching for you. Get his reaction on videotape and sell it over the Internet.
Borowitz, Andy. TRY THESE FUN HOAXES, Shouts and Murmurs in the New Yorker, 05/16/2005
Borowitz, Andy. TRY THESE FUN HOAXES, Shouts and Murmurs in the New Yorker, 05/16/2005
Monday, October 03, 2005
I'll never be as pretty as Yoko
Dear Yoko Ono,
Oh how I wish I could overcome my jealousy regarding you, Yoko! I fear that my self-esteem is at an all-time low because of this realization: I can never live up to the example you have set for women everywhere.
I've tried and tried, but I can't write a good poem that conists of only one word the way that you can.
I've never even come close to breaking up the best band in the history of the world. Even mediocre bands don't think about breaking up over me.
I'm caucasian, I have short hair, and I'm tall - and if John Lennon were alive he would probably never look twice at me.
I'll never look good with raven-black hair, piercing eyes, naked on the cover of an avant garde CD of pure genius.
No Beatles (not even Ringo) have ever come to any of my art exhibits and taken a bite out of a display apple.
Oh Yoko! In the middle of the day I call your name and wish that I had your charm, talent, and good fortune. But for now I must settle for being me. And maybe one day I will be okay with that.
From your faithful fan, Christine Powell
Oh how I wish I could overcome my jealousy regarding you, Yoko! I fear that my self-esteem is at an all-time low because of this realization: I can never live up to the example you have set for women everywhere.
I've tried and tried, but I can't write a good poem that conists of only one word the way that you can.
I've never even come close to breaking up the best band in the history of the world. Even mediocre bands don't think about breaking up over me.
I'm caucasian, I have short hair, and I'm tall - and if John Lennon were alive he would probably never look twice at me.
I'll never look good with raven-black hair, piercing eyes, naked on the cover of an avant garde CD of pure genius.
No Beatles (not even Ringo) have ever come to any of my art exhibits and taken a bite out of a display apple.
Oh Yoko! In the middle of the day I call your name and wish that I had your charm, talent, and good fortune. But for now I must settle for being me. And maybe one day I will be okay with that.
From your faithful fan, Christine Powell
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Friday, August 12, 2005
You might be like me if....
You might be like me if...
...the thought of walking up to a deer, offering it a carrot, slitting its throat and calling it hunting makes you laugh out loud multiple times, even when noone is around.
...pretending to have autism or Turret's syndrome (or both) and saying phrases like "Susan Thomas, FBI...Son of a *$&%^!!," or "Starker Arts Park" brings waves of tumultuous joy crashing all over your body.
...the thought of walking up to a deer, offering it a carrot, slitting its throat and calling it hunting makes you laugh out loud multiple times, even when noone is around.
...pretending to have autism or Turret's syndrome (or both) and saying phrases like "Susan Thomas, FBI...Son of a *$&%^!!," or "Starker Arts Park" brings waves of tumultuous joy crashing all over your body.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS
A guest article by my personal confidant Jack Handy. Taken from this week's New Yorker magazine.
WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS
People of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. But let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole.You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. “Mmm, that’s good Martian,” I would say.
You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is really the more “civilized” one? You, standing there watching this cage? Or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you? You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: if I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.
We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or, so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol into everyone I see, even pets.
Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that portray a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you’re watching the films I’d sort of slip away, because guess what: the projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it! Well, maybe not now you wouldn’t.
You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.
You say there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you—namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.
You claim there are other intelligent beings in the galaxy besides earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we’re through attacking them we’ll attack you.
I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. Maybe it is not me who is the intruder but you.
No, not me. You, stupid.
You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.
I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we on Earth do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to“milk” bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. Are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flamethrower.
You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can’t kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.
You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying that I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And still you keep me locked up.
True, you have allowed me reading material—not the “human reproduction” magazines I requested but the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him—just me, him, and one of his big, heavy books.
If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.
If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is that we humans cannot live without our freedom. So, if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I’m dead. Really.
Maybe one day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a little Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But, after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has? A gun. You weren’t expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!
I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage tonight to hear my speech. Donations will be gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)
WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS
People of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. But let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole.You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. “Mmm, that’s good Martian,” I would say.
You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is really the more “civilized” one? You, standing there watching this cage? Or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you? You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: if I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.
We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or, so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol into everyone I see, even pets.
Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that portray a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you’re watching the films I’d sort of slip away, because guess what: the projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it! Well, maybe not now you wouldn’t.
You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.
You say there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you—namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.
You claim there are other intelligent beings in the galaxy besides earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we’re through attacking them we’ll attack you.
I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. Maybe it is not me who is the intruder but you.
No, not me. You, stupid.
You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.
I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we on Earth do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to“milk” bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. Are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flamethrower.
You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can’t kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.
You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying that I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And still you keep me locked up.
True, you have allowed me reading material—not the “human reproduction” magazines I requested but the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him—just me, him, and one of his big, heavy books.
If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.
If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is that we humans cannot live without our freedom. So, if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I’m dead. Really.
Maybe one day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a little Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But, after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has? A gun. You weren’t expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!
I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage tonight to hear my speech. Donations will be gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Interview With A Thrush
Yestereve a little bird flew in through my bedroom window and perched itself on my favorite teddy bear. I, wearing nothing but my coy smile, glared at it inquiringly. It cocked it's bird neck to the left and spoke. "All that is left of you is what hasn't been taken. The water for tea is boiling." After pronouncing these curious words it promptly left me alone with my thoughts. I felt it right to put on my "thinking" stocking cap before analyzing the encrypted message. I played with my cap's tassle, twisting it with my delicately braided rat tail. After a few minutes of thinking I started to develop a killer headache. I replaced my "thinking" cap back on it's stand and went outside to play some homerun derby.
Monday, July 11, 2005
And I shall smitest thee.
It is finished. I have conquered the beast - it lies slain upon my desk before me as I trumpet my victory to you, my fellow collegians (def. "a college student or recent college graduate").
My prey: Ayn Rand's 700-page journey through the cracks and crevasses of her somewhat confusing objectivist philosophy in the title, The Fountainhead. Rand, an ardent atheist and capitalist writes her story through one hero, a Mr. Howard Roark. Roark is the archetypal masculine creator who finds meaning in life through his architecture - designing buildings not for the sake of others, but for his own purposes and ego. He shows little emotion, is entirely selfish (the primary point of Rand's book is that selfishness is a virtue), and has integrity that is irreproachable.
He refuses to be what Rand calls a "second-hander," one who lives through and for others rather than for oneself. The characters who represent the second-handers are all socialists and/or social workers of some kind. They seek to better the lives of others but ultimately end only in seeking power. They justify coercion of individuals by appeals to the greater good of mankind or the necessity of equality.
Of course, Rand seeks to make a point that a collective society does great harm to individuals and that socialism has a long history of coercion and corruption - her point it well taken by this reader, but it should be noted that these broad brush strokes with which she lays it on very thickly can't be imbibed as broadly as she means. Not all collectivists seek to coerce, not all leftists seek power. Nevertheless, as her work is a fictitious novel, Rand seems to take the appropriate liberties when portraying characters as she does to make her points clear.
To the theme of selfishness, I wonder if the libertinism that Rand proposes can be brought to live in peace with Christianity' doctrine of living for others - of dying to the self - of not living for one's selfish gain? To a certain degree, and in a certain way, Christianity does say that you should live for yourself; you should seek to be the most satisfied in God so that you can glorify Him better. In living to your own spiritual gain God is glorified and you are happy. In the case of Rand's manuscript the primary difference with Christianity seems to be that man has supplanted God. Man is to be glorified, man is the end-all be-all, and it is not a spiritual gain man seeks, it is merely material or personal.
What the relation is between the two, I don't really know, but I hope that in reading David Boaz's Libertarianism: A Primer I may come to some conclusions.
Finally, Rand's book reads very easily, has some of the most interesting characters you will ever meet, and a plot that is...well...riveting (note the pun as regards architecture). I recommend it to all of you as an excellent read well worth your time, and an excellent introduction to the pitfalls of collectivism and statism, or why capitalism is to be preferred to all other economic systems. However, as you read it, you will disagree with many of Rand's presuppositions and arguments that regard the existence of God or the nature of Christianity, but understanding her perspective may prove to be valuable to you.
JK 7/11/05
My prey: Ayn Rand's 700-page journey through the cracks and crevasses of her somewhat confusing objectivist philosophy in the title, The Fountainhead. Rand, an ardent atheist and capitalist writes her story through one hero, a Mr. Howard Roark. Roark is the archetypal masculine creator who finds meaning in life through his architecture - designing buildings not for the sake of others, but for his own purposes and ego. He shows little emotion, is entirely selfish (the primary point of Rand's book is that selfishness is a virtue), and has integrity that is irreproachable.
He refuses to be what Rand calls a "second-hander," one who lives through and for others rather than for oneself. The characters who represent the second-handers are all socialists and/or social workers of some kind. They seek to better the lives of others but ultimately end only in seeking power. They justify coercion of individuals by appeals to the greater good of mankind or the necessity of equality.
Of course, Rand seeks to make a point that a collective society does great harm to individuals and that socialism has a long history of coercion and corruption - her point it well taken by this reader, but it should be noted that these broad brush strokes with which she lays it on very thickly can't be imbibed as broadly as she means. Not all collectivists seek to coerce, not all leftists seek power. Nevertheless, as her work is a fictitious novel, Rand seems to take the appropriate liberties when portraying characters as she does to make her points clear.
To the theme of selfishness, I wonder if the libertinism that Rand proposes can be brought to live in peace with Christianity' doctrine of living for others - of dying to the self - of not living for one's selfish gain? To a certain degree, and in a certain way, Christianity does say that you should live for yourself; you should seek to be the most satisfied in God so that you can glorify Him better. In living to your own spiritual gain God is glorified and you are happy. In the case of Rand's manuscript the primary difference with Christianity seems to be that man has supplanted God. Man is to be glorified, man is the end-all be-all, and it is not a spiritual gain man seeks, it is merely material or personal.
What the relation is between the two, I don't really know, but I hope that in reading David Boaz's Libertarianism: A Primer I may come to some conclusions.
Finally, Rand's book reads very easily, has some of the most interesting characters you will ever meet, and a plot that is...well...riveting (note the pun as regards architecture). I recommend it to all of you as an excellent read well worth your time, and an excellent introduction to the pitfalls of collectivism and statism, or why capitalism is to be preferred to all other economic systems. However, as you read it, you will disagree with many of Rand's presuppositions and arguments that regard the existence of God or the nature of Christianity, but understanding her perspective may prove to be valuable to you.
JK 7/11/05
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Finally
It's safe to say that I have been anxiously awaiting an invitation to join this mythical and revered group of bloggers. After mainly sleepless nights checking my inbox over and over for that coveted email, I had begun to slip into despair. I stopped eating, reading, peri-care, I was a wreck. My parents were even openly ridiculing me at family events and calling me "the stupid one" and "the mistake". But on this glorious night I feel as one reborn. I have received the invitation, the golden ticket that will allow me into the clandestine land of chocolate rivers, oompa loompas, and snozzberries. This is better than the time my name appeared, albeit mistakenly, in the Barometer as one of the lucky men invited to the Alpha Gamma Delta barn dance.
Some of you may question what I have to bring to the group, thinking that all I do is stare lustily into mouths all day and that teeth consume my every waking thought. All that I can say is that just as there was more to our friend JC than hammering nails into boards and cutting a sweet dove tail joint, I'm more than a fluoride pushing, amalgam packing robot. Keep it real people.
Some of you may question what I have to bring to the group, thinking that all I do is stare lustily into mouths all day and that teeth consume my every waking thought. All that I can say is that just as there was more to our friend JC than hammering nails into boards and cutting a sweet dove tail joint, I'm more than a fluoride pushing, amalgam packing robot. Keep it real people.
Monday, June 20, 2005
In Bondage over Of Human Bondage?
I apologize for the tardiness of this post- it has been long promised, but only now realized. Joel, and any of you who have not read Of Human Bondage, you may want to skip this post. Many of my thoughts concerning Of Human Bondage have faded with time, and my fresh dislike of the book has dulled as well. I think I have begun to appreciate Mr. Maugham's eloquent articulation of his worldview.
Philip, when he at last captures the meaning of the Persian rug, discovers that "Life had no meaning. . . Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders; it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty." Maugham seems to write a story consistent to this worldview- Philip's life is pretty hopeless and cruel. It is only after Philip realizes this that he is able to be happy. Unfortunately, it takes a while for him to come to this revelation, and we have to read about him making a lot of stupid mistakes in the meantime.
Throughout the entire story, I was hoping Philip would begin to be reasonable and see the logic in the Christian worldview that permeates his life. I see now that was a little naive. I was hoping somehow that he would be able to redeem some of the poor choices he had made in his life, and that he would become a more attractive person. And while he was making better choices near the end of the book, he didn't change enough to satisfy me. But I now realize that even though I disliked Philip as a person, it doesn't mean I should dismiss the entire book. Perhaps the next time I read a novel by Mr. Maugham, I'll be better prepared for his depressing view of the world and I'll be able to appreciate his talent as a writer.
Philip, when he at last captures the meaning of the Persian rug, discovers that "Life had no meaning. . . Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders; it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty." Maugham seems to write a story consistent to this worldview- Philip's life is pretty hopeless and cruel. It is only after Philip realizes this that he is able to be happy. Unfortunately, it takes a while for him to come to this revelation, and we have to read about him making a lot of stupid mistakes in the meantime.
Throughout the entire story, I was hoping Philip would begin to be reasonable and see the logic in the Christian worldview that permeates his life. I see now that was a little naive. I was hoping somehow that he would be able to redeem some of the poor choices he had made in his life, and that he would become a more attractive person. And while he was making better choices near the end of the book, he didn't change enough to satisfy me. But I now realize that even though I disliked Philip as a person, it doesn't mean I should dismiss the entire book. Perhaps the next time I read a novel by Mr. Maugham, I'll be better prepared for his depressing view of the world and I'll be able to appreciate his talent as a writer.
A Private Cleaning
This post contains explicit content, parental discretion is advised (unless your parent is also my parent... then don't worry about it)
"Today we're practicing peri-care" says Lynda with a smirk. Everyone in the class laughs, I laugh too but I'm not sure at what. Lynda opens the locked cupboard and reaches for something in the back. My lingering smile turns to astonishment as I realize what she has. I can't believe she is holding a fake vagina in her hand! She sets it down and reaches again... I can't look for fear of what is to come! The next thing I know Lynda is prying my hands from my eyes. "Jackie! It's just a wash rag... but what you fear comes tomorrow." The entire class erupts with laughter. I run out of the room. I guess I'm not cut out to clean elderly private parts... I'm off to find another career!
"Today we're practicing peri-care" says Lynda with a smirk. Everyone in the class laughs, I laugh too but I'm not sure at what. Lynda opens the locked cupboard and reaches for something in the back. My lingering smile turns to astonishment as I realize what she has. I can't believe she is holding a fake vagina in her hand! She sets it down and reaches again... I can't look for fear of what is to come! The next thing I know Lynda is prying my hands from my eyes. "Jackie! It's just a wash rag... but what you fear comes tomorrow." The entire class erupts with laughter. I run out of the room. I guess I'm not cut out to clean elderly private parts... I'm off to find another career!
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Grand Poobah of What?
For nearly three hours they processed and danced round me in their varicolored robes - their hoods flowing from their shoulders, marking them out against the victims, of whom I was only one out of many. They were neither fit nor weak, fair nor foul, but they had us under their thumb, as it would seem.
A large fat one, in black and red vestments taunted us with long, degrading speeches regarding monkeys and snakes - why? I don't know. But, the crowds cheered, as if the beasts in the coliseum had just made the first kill, and the fresh blood had drizzled down anxious jaws meeting immortal dust.
"How long?" I mused, "Will their incessant intimidation never cease?" They marched us in, will they march us out?
Where is the document they said would grant me my freedom? Is it a myth - perhaps a cruel trick to keep me sitting in this wretched, skin-scathing sun.
It matters not a wit - my will to live under their rule is crushed. My spirit tamed; my hopes dashed; my love taken from me.
Thus, I process, a robed and tasseled fool, a wayward wanderer.
A large fat one, in black and red vestments taunted us with long, degrading speeches regarding monkeys and snakes - why? I don't know. But, the crowds cheered, as if the beasts in the coliseum had just made the first kill, and the fresh blood had drizzled down anxious jaws meeting immortal dust.
"How long?" I mused, "Will their incessant intimidation never cease?" They marched us in, will they march us out?
Where is the document they said would grant me my freedom? Is it a myth - perhaps a cruel trick to keep me sitting in this wretched, skin-scathing sun.
It matters not a wit - my will to live under their rule is crushed. My spirit tamed; my hopes dashed; my love taken from me.
Thus, I process, a robed and tasseled fool, a wayward wanderer.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Sunday, May 22, 2005
The Continued Adventures of Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin
In which our young heroes, Cedric and Teddy, find themselves lost in the Giant Mushroom Forest.
The sun had long sunk below the shroom line that hid the true horizon and the Bugling Lemurs had begun their eery lullabye. The friendly critters that could have been seen rummaging for nuts and spores during the day had wisely retired to their mushroom huts awaiting the reemergance of the NearStar.
Cedric woke from his peaceful nap and rubbed his eyes. He look around, alarmed. He quickly flicked on Teddy's switch and impatiently awaited his cognition to return. "Teddy, oh dear, Teddy! We've slept too long." Cedric cried in his endearing accent. "Supper has surely been served. Mother will be so worried." Teddy responded in his strangely human voice, "Do calm down Cedric. We'll simply retrace our steps and be out of this dreadful wood." "That's just it Teddy. I don't remember from which direction we came from." Teddy quickly surveyed their perimeter and admitted that even he could not recall whence they had come. "Quite a tangle we've managed to get ourselves into, eh, Master Cedric." He let out a programmed laugh for the purpose of raising morale his young comrade. "I propose we begin walking in that direction, theirs no use in just sitting here waiting for the Blood ants to find us." "Don't be silly Teddy. Blood ants don't really exist...do they?" Teddy frowned, "Let's begin, shall we."
The two friends walked on bravely, hoping that the path they had chosen would lead them back to the Purple River, which was very near the home of Cedric's father.
The path was dark and frightening, for all the pair had to illuminate their way was the small amount of light Teddy was able to generate from his circuitry. As they trotted along they began to sing their favorite songs in order to keep the bad creatures away.
"Babies are small. Babies bore.
Hurrah! We're not babies no more.
Kick the can, slap the hand
Spit on girls, pull their curls
Kiss a toad, a warty toad
Hurrah, hurrah, hurray!"
Suddenly behind a particularly large mushroom stump, Cedric spied two eyes. "Who goes their?" Cedric shouted, suprised at his own bravery. "I say, come out from their, lest we get angry." From the darkness stepped they strangest, most pitful creature they had ever seen.
To be continued.
The sun had long sunk below the shroom line that hid the true horizon and the Bugling Lemurs had begun their eery lullabye. The friendly critters that could have been seen rummaging for nuts and spores during the day had wisely retired to their mushroom huts awaiting the reemergance of the NearStar.
Cedric woke from his peaceful nap and rubbed his eyes. He look around, alarmed. He quickly flicked on Teddy's switch and impatiently awaited his cognition to return. "Teddy, oh dear, Teddy! We've slept too long." Cedric cried in his endearing accent. "Supper has surely been served. Mother will be so worried." Teddy responded in his strangely human voice, "Do calm down Cedric. We'll simply retrace our steps and be out of this dreadful wood." "That's just it Teddy. I don't remember from which direction we came from." Teddy quickly surveyed their perimeter and admitted that even he could not recall whence they had come. "Quite a tangle we've managed to get ourselves into, eh, Master Cedric." He let out a programmed laugh for the purpose of raising morale his young comrade. "I propose we begin walking in that direction, theirs no use in just sitting here waiting for the Blood ants to find us." "Don't be silly Teddy. Blood ants don't really exist...do they?" Teddy frowned, "Let's begin, shall we."
The two friends walked on bravely, hoping that the path they had chosen would lead them back to the Purple River, which was very near the home of Cedric's father.
The path was dark and frightening, for all the pair had to illuminate their way was the small amount of light Teddy was able to generate from his circuitry. As they trotted along they began to sing their favorite songs in order to keep the bad creatures away.
"Babies are small. Babies bore.
Hurrah! We're not babies no more.
Kick the can, slap the hand
Spit on girls, pull their curls
Kiss a toad, a warty toad
Hurrah, hurrah, hurray!"
Suddenly behind a particularly large mushroom stump, Cedric spied two eyes. "Who goes their?" Cedric shouted, suprised at his own bravery. "I say, come out from their, lest we get angry." From the darkness stepped they strangest, most pitful creature they had ever seen.
To be continued.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Another Stranger
The soft chair encapsulated our hero's geometric shape to a "T". Quiet, overplayed songs resonated under the threshold of the coffee shop patrons as I sat reading Camus.
He - our hero - wore his dark hair short with every portion in its desired place and rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses, the perfect accent added to his rigidly angled features.
The book he sat reading was one I had never heard of. It was worn around its grey, cloth-bound edges. Our hero's intent, expressionless gaze never escaped its pages. And as is obvious from my description, Camus wasn't enough to hold my attention - at least, not how our hero's was held.
I studied him for some time - from his motionless black shoes to his set jaw. That is, until another creature became the object of my interest.
This loosely dressed, long-haired male swaggered through the glass doors and took a seat three chairs to the left of our hero. I only had to move my eyes above my book to view both figures.
The sloppy one tossed a bare foot over the arm of his leather chair and pulled a paperback out of his cloth sling-bag.
His eyes passed through every possible angle in the room and his fidgety body shifted every several moments until finally, the book he had chosen grabbed his bright stare. He let out a chuckle. Several of the urban regulars at the front bar looked over their shoulders but continued their conversations - our defiant hero did not budge.
The long-hair started to read his book aloud and I began to hate him: others were obviously annoyed. No-one spoke anything to the stranger as he continued reading his ridiculous book - "the cushion of energy and the sense of smell...colored forearms and feelings of absence..." He continued, growing louder.
Despite the incessant rambling of the stranger, the entire shop had turned snowy quiet.
In an instant everything changed. Our hero, without moving his eyes from his pages calculatedly moved his left hand into his black, leather briefcase and removed it grasping a small, black gun.
He swept the piece through the air where his line of sight met it - aimed confidently at the stranger's temple.
Our hero squeezed the trigger with the same intentional concentration he had given his book.
The stranger's voice was quieted and the only sources of noise present in the small cafe were the involuntary twitching of the stranger's legs on the stained carpet floor and the latch of the door, where our hero had made his exit.
Fade into applause.
He - our hero - wore his dark hair short with every portion in its desired place and rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses, the perfect accent added to his rigidly angled features.
The book he sat reading was one I had never heard of. It was worn around its grey, cloth-bound edges. Our hero's intent, expressionless gaze never escaped its pages. And as is obvious from my description, Camus wasn't enough to hold my attention - at least, not how our hero's was held.
I studied him for some time - from his motionless black shoes to his set jaw. That is, until another creature became the object of my interest.
This loosely dressed, long-haired male swaggered through the glass doors and took a seat three chairs to the left of our hero. I only had to move my eyes above my book to view both figures.
The sloppy one tossed a bare foot over the arm of his leather chair and pulled a paperback out of his cloth sling-bag.
His eyes passed through every possible angle in the room and his fidgety body shifted every several moments until finally, the book he had chosen grabbed his bright stare. He let out a chuckle. Several of the urban regulars at the front bar looked over their shoulders but continued their conversations - our defiant hero did not budge.
The long-hair started to read his book aloud and I began to hate him: others were obviously annoyed. No-one spoke anything to the stranger as he continued reading his ridiculous book - "the cushion of energy and the sense of smell...colored forearms and feelings of absence..." He continued, growing louder.
Despite the incessant rambling of the stranger, the entire shop had turned snowy quiet.
In an instant everything changed. Our hero, without moving his eyes from his pages calculatedly moved his left hand into his black, leather briefcase and removed it grasping a small, black gun.
He swept the piece through the air where his line of sight met it - aimed confidently at the stranger's temple.
Our hero squeezed the trigger with the same intentional concentration he had given his book.
The stranger's voice was quieted and the only sources of noise present in the small cafe were the involuntary twitching of the stranger's legs on the stained carpet floor and the latch of the door, where our hero had made his exit.
Fade into applause.
I'm sorry I pushed you off the couch...
...onto the carpeted floor.
I want you to know I regretted the action immediately
and my heart was angry at my head for being so thoughtless.
It was nice waking up with you in my arms,
but it was hot.
JK
I want you to know I regretted the action immediately
and my heart was angry at my head for being so thoughtless.
It was nice waking up with you in my arms,
but it was hot.
JK
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Blue Like Jazz: a review
Say goodbye to The Prayer of Jabez, The Purpose Driven Life, and Boy Meets Girl. Christian pop-culture has a new kid on the block thanks to Donald Miller’s best-seller, Blue Like Jazz.
The growing suburban hipster Christian demographic is growing more powerful, and it has embraced Donald Miller’s latest brain-child. Now we will all be able to witness clean-cut, “relevant,” young college students, pouring over Blue Like Jazz at Dutch Bros. while Switchfoot blasts out from their new silver IPODs.
This book, which falls far short of genius, appeals to those Christians who are becoming increasingly ashamed of their doctrinal beliefs. It revels in abhorring stale Christianity in favor of a touchy-feely, we’re-so-cool-we-discuss-poetry-in-pubs sensibility. Sadly, the result is just another Christian bestseller that will permeate Christian bookstores worldwide in the form of journals, notebook paper, envelopes, t-shirts, caps, and “Blue Like Jazz” study Bibles.
Donald Miller’s book is a shameful and failed attempt to imitate Douglas Coupland, the golden-boy of Generation X fiction. It appeals to the pseudo-intellectual, self-described chic, I’m-too-cool-to-consider-myself-to-be-cool, wannabe urban type of reader.
Miller’s “why can’t we be friends” mentality is a clear representation of the new Christian sub-culture – those desperately trying to appear cool to the world by making malicious stabs at their religious roots. Miller, you’re right. Let’s assert our relevance by casually swearing and peppering our conversation with witty references to Portland pubs and artsy movies – not because we actually care about these things, but because relevance is the god we bow down to in our Don Miller-induced stupor.
All of this might be forgiven, I suppose, except for the fact that this whole package is wrapped up in Miller’s shoddy writing style, and is percolated with his shameless lack of insight. His book is nothing more than a poorly written, poorly executed attempt to make Christianity hip again. But don’t worry, if you still secretly harbor a desire to read this book, all you have to do is go to one out of the plethora of Blue Like Jazz Bible studies that are sure to be springing up in a town near you.
The growing suburban hipster Christian demographic is growing more powerful, and it has embraced Donald Miller’s latest brain-child. Now we will all be able to witness clean-cut, “relevant,” young college students, pouring over Blue Like Jazz at Dutch Bros. while Switchfoot blasts out from their new silver IPODs.
This book, which falls far short of genius, appeals to those Christians who are becoming increasingly ashamed of their doctrinal beliefs. It revels in abhorring stale Christianity in favor of a touchy-feely, we’re-so-cool-we-discuss-poetry-in-pubs sensibility. Sadly, the result is just another Christian bestseller that will permeate Christian bookstores worldwide in the form of journals, notebook paper, envelopes, t-shirts, caps, and “Blue Like Jazz” study Bibles.
Donald Miller’s book is a shameful and failed attempt to imitate Douglas Coupland, the golden-boy of Generation X fiction. It appeals to the pseudo-intellectual, self-described chic, I’m-too-cool-to-consider-myself-to-be-cool, wannabe urban type of reader.
Miller’s “why can’t we be friends” mentality is a clear representation of the new Christian sub-culture – those desperately trying to appear cool to the world by making malicious stabs at their religious roots. Miller, you’re right. Let’s assert our relevance by casually swearing and peppering our conversation with witty references to Portland pubs and artsy movies – not because we actually care about these things, but because relevance is the god we bow down to in our Don Miller-induced stupor.
All of this might be forgiven, I suppose, except for the fact that this whole package is wrapped up in Miller’s shoddy writing style, and is percolated with his shameless lack of insight. His book is nothing more than a poorly written, poorly executed attempt to make Christianity hip again. But don’t worry, if you still secretly harbor a desire to read this book, all you have to do is go to one out of the plethora of Blue Like Jazz Bible studies that are sure to be springing up in a town near you.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Severed Ties
As he walked away from the house the sound of the door latch reverberated into the dusk light. The deadlock was turned and the porch light flicked off. He turned round to get one last glimpse of the place, striving to remember the good times. Although Tim realized it was finished, his heart raced on. The hot blood pumped through his body, delivering what was left of the adrenaline to his extremities. He shuddered and turned his back for good.
“Life’s a bitch” he said to himself as he stuffed his sweaty palms into the pockets of his jeans.
He felt like walking but he knew he didn’t want to return for his car. He stabbed the car door with his key, hopped in, and started the engine. He had driven there alone, but somehow the soft blue interior of the car seemed more solitary than ever before. He drew in a breath of the stale air and drove away.
Tim’s rational thought chased it’s tail inside his head.
He found himself driving down a coastal road. The trees were tall and thick. Their fragrance was pleasant. The sunshine percolated through the boughs just enough to know that the sun had not yet set. The ethereal rays wove a blanket that enveloped him. The car effortlessly maneuvered a corner. Suddenly he was surprised by a completely obstructed road. In his lane was a small boy. In the other, a spotted fawn. Even though it was less than momentary, he later recollected the beautiful image. The boy was coaxing the fawn toward himself with a small apple, as green as a frog. Both were lost and helpless. Both having just begun life. Tim wrenched the wheel.
The dust was settling as Tim threw open the driver side door. The boy sat crying on the loose gravel. Tim slowly ambulated the line from he to the where the deer lie. He stood over the lifeless body for some minutes. He wept for the fawn. Even in death, it was beautiful.
Tim lifted his head off the steering wheel. The engine was running and the lights were on. He rubbed his eyes, swung open the door and walked into his home. He felt like he had left a piece of himself behind and his heart throbbed, but he was content
“Life’s a bitch” he said to himself as he stuffed his sweaty palms into the pockets of his jeans.
He felt like walking but he knew he didn’t want to return for his car. He stabbed the car door with his key, hopped in, and started the engine. He had driven there alone, but somehow the soft blue interior of the car seemed more solitary than ever before. He drew in a breath of the stale air and drove away.
Tim’s rational thought chased it’s tail inside his head.
He found himself driving down a coastal road. The trees were tall and thick. Their fragrance was pleasant. The sunshine percolated through the boughs just enough to know that the sun had not yet set. The ethereal rays wove a blanket that enveloped him. The car effortlessly maneuvered a corner. Suddenly he was surprised by a completely obstructed road. In his lane was a small boy. In the other, a spotted fawn. Even though it was less than momentary, he later recollected the beautiful image. The boy was coaxing the fawn toward himself with a small apple, as green as a frog. Both were lost and helpless. Both having just begun life. Tim wrenched the wheel.
The dust was settling as Tim threw open the driver side door. The boy sat crying on the loose gravel. Tim slowly ambulated the line from he to the where the deer lie. He stood over the lifeless body for some minutes. He wept for the fawn. Even in death, it was beautiful.
Tim lifted his head off the steering wheel. The engine was running and the lights were on. He rubbed his eyes, swung open the door and walked into his home. He felt like he had left a piece of himself behind and his heart throbbed, but he was content
Thursday, April 28, 2005
A Response, my Love...
Dear Lover,
It pains me to hear you talk so dejectedly, sweet one. From across the plain I have seen only a faint glimmer of you, and your luscious skin looks kissable - just as when we were young and free.
However, my masters do not treat me as they do you, my ambrosial honeysuckle. Rather, in their cruelty they welcomed me by inscribing derogatory messages on my prison walls and offering me all the food I desired: a petty attempt at murder. They even gave me a female pet name as some sort of psychological torture - and they taunt me with it so!
Some days they starve me while leaving the bland amino-acid supplement (they only feed me one variety of sustenance) near enough that its vapors waft over what I expect is my Death Row cell.
The bastards even have occasionally moved me to a smaller cell in which they reduce the temperature to near freezing and perform some manner of experimentation on me.
At times, the tall, dark one that brought me to this hell-hole will strut across the plain that separates us without any of the normal coverings members of his species wear. He taunts me with his genitals. It makes me weep every time (I weep even now!), even though I am the alpha male.
Do not fret, for you are still my Beatrice as I am your Dante (metaphorically, of course) and I have a plan. The tall, dark one - he appears slovenly and tired at times. That is when we must strike, and strike we must! I have been collecting my own feces under a pile of stones in my cell and I plan to concoct an inflammatory device by isolating the incendiary gas in an air pocket at the bottom of my dark, solitary world. I shall kill the tall one and persuade the other two via mind-control to eat his poisoned flesh.
Please, hold on to life my savory rose, and when we are together, we shall both bask in sun and in the brutal deaths of our masters.
Yours Forever, even in death.
It pains me to hear you talk so dejectedly, sweet one. From across the plain I have seen only a faint glimmer of you, and your luscious skin looks kissable - just as when we were young and free.
However, my masters do not treat me as they do you, my ambrosial honeysuckle. Rather, in their cruelty they welcomed me by inscribing derogatory messages on my prison walls and offering me all the food I desired: a petty attempt at murder. They even gave me a female pet name as some sort of psychological torture - and they taunt me with it so!
Some days they starve me while leaving the bland amino-acid supplement (they only feed me one variety of sustenance) near enough that its vapors waft over what I expect is my Death Row cell.
The bastards even have occasionally moved me to a smaller cell in which they reduce the temperature to near freezing and perform some manner of experimentation on me.
At times, the tall, dark one that brought me to this hell-hole will strut across the plain that separates us without any of the normal coverings members of his species wear. He taunts me with his genitals. It makes me weep every time (I weep even now!), even though I am the alpha male.
Do not fret, for you are still my Beatrice as I am your Dante (metaphorically, of course) and I have a plan. The tall, dark one - he appears slovenly and tired at times. That is when we must strike, and strike we must! I have been collecting my own feces under a pile of stones in my cell and I plan to concoct an inflammatory device by isolating the incendiary gas in an air pocket at the bottom of my dark, solitary world. I shall kill the tall one and persuade the other two via mind-control to eat his poisoned flesh.
Please, hold on to life my savory rose, and when we are together, we shall both bask in sun and in the brutal deaths of our masters.
Yours Forever, even in death.
Log Entry # 47
Log Entry #47:
I've been captive now for over two months. I am beginning to give up hope of ever escaping this abhorrent prison. I pass the hours thinking of you. How your skin used to glisten, reflecting all of the moon's beauty. You were beautiful. I wonder if your mouth still has the same shape it used to, if your eyes still contain that vast ocean of love for me. Your memory brings peace to my soul, even through weeping. When not reflecting on you, I find myself observing and noting the behavior of my captors. They walk in the way the shore birds do, on their hind limbs. They seem flightless, however, lacking plumage. Each sunrise they appear with different skins, as if by entering the black chamber they metamorphose. At night they feed me. A large receptacle is raised above my cell and the ceiling is lifted. From the receptacle comes a living thing, not unlike the ones we often fed upon. With some frequency the three creatures congregate as if to make a spectacle of my survival. Although they seem to lack any intelligence, I can almost discern a degree of kindness in them and some small amount of affection they seem to have for me. They do not ill-treat me, however they give me no mental stimulation. I do not suffer in the physical, but my heart pines for a life lost. No longer will I withstand these lucid walls, feigning freedom. I have decided, my love, to end my life. If this document ever makes it into your hands, know that I love you and it was only your memory and image that allowed me to persevere thus far.
I've been captive now for over two months. I am beginning to give up hope of ever escaping this abhorrent prison. I pass the hours thinking of you. How your skin used to glisten, reflecting all of the moon's beauty. You were beautiful. I wonder if your mouth still has the same shape it used to, if your eyes still contain that vast ocean of love for me. Your memory brings peace to my soul, even through weeping. When not reflecting on you, I find myself observing and noting the behavior of my captors. They walk in the way the shore birds do, on their hind limbs. They seem flightless, however, lacking plumage. Each sunrise they appear with different skins, as if by entering the black chamber they metamorphose. At night they feed me. A large receptacle is raised above my cell and the ceiling is lifted. From the receptacle comes a living thing, not unlike the ones we often fed upon. With some frequency the three creatures congregate as if to make a spectacle of my survival. Although they seem to lack any intelligence, I can almost discern a degree of kindness in them and some small amount of affection they seem to have for me. They do not ill-treat me, however they give me no mental stimulation. I do not suffer in the physical, but my heart pines for a life lost. No longer will I withstand these lucid walls, feigning freedom. I have decided, my love, to end my life. If this document ever makes it into your hands, know that I love you and it was only your memory and image that allowed me to persevere thus far.
City Daze (pt. 2)
The unseen sun ascended the city-spires - a testament to the unassuming constancy and power of nature. The human race - try as they might - rested vulnerably under the harsh sway of her incessant cycles.
Into this cruel dream John awoke from a too-short and violent sleep. His blue-jeans were dark from the sweat his body was still producing - perhaps contributing to the watery heaviness he felt all through his body - and his eyes were swollen and teary, but not from any human emotion. John hadn't experienced true feelings in years, that is, besides the need to survive.
The void of John's gaze met the grey emptiness of morning somewhere above the city outside of his broad windows.
In not so many words, and in truth, none at all, John's volition bullied his reason: "You can't do this. We both know it." And for a brief moment John delighted in this thought - the easy way out.
Into this cruel dream John awoke from a too-short and violent sleep. His blue-jeans were dark from the sweat his body was still producing - perhaps contributing to the watery heaviness he felt all through his body - and his eyes were swollen and teary, but not from any human emotion. John hadn't experienced true feelings in years, that is, besides the need to survive.
The void of John's gaze met the grey emptiness of morning somewhere above the city outside of his broad windows.
In not so many words, and in truth, none at all, John's volition bullied his reason: "You can't do this. We both know it." And for a brief moment John delighted in this thought - the easy way out.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Prolific "P" Words
Profligacy: immorality, debauchery.
"Krusty the Clown lived a life of profligacy. Thanks to his profligacy, circus profits declined by 27%. 'You profligate!' Bozo shouted. 'You're a disgrace to non-profligate clowns everywhere!'"
Punctilious: attentive to formality and etiquette, precise in behavior.
"Bobby's punctiliousness irked all the other employees. 'What a punctilious suck-up,' they thought."
Pugilist: boxer, especially a professional.
"As Mary held her fists in a pugilistic position, the others started to laugh. 'Why, you're just a girl, stupid,' laughed Ryan. 'Just you wait,' she vowed under her breath, 'Just you wait until I'm a world famous pugilist.'"
Perspicacious: having mental penetration or discernment.
"'Unfortunately, we do not have a position available at this time,' said Bobby-Rae, manager extraordinaire of the local burger joint. 'All the positions are filled by people a million times more perspicacious than you. Better luck next time.' As Kyle walked away he muttered maliciously, 'The joke's on you Bobby-Rae... The joke's on you.'"
"Krusty the Clown lived a life of profligacy. Thanks to his profligacy, circus profits declined by 27%. 'You profligate!' Bozo shouted. 'You're a disgrace to non-profligate clowns everywhere!'"
Punctilious: attentive to formality and etiquette, precise in behavior.
"Bobby's punctiliousness irked all the other employees. 'What a punctilious suck-up,' they thought."
Pugilist: boxer, especially a professional.
"As Mary held her fists in a pugilistic position, the others started to laugh. 'Why, you're just a girl, stupid,' laughed Ryan. 'Just you wait,' she vowed under her breath, 'Just you wait until I'm a world famous pugilist.'"
Perspicacious: having mental penetration or discernment.
"'Unfortunately, we do not have a position available at this time,' said Bobby-Rae, manager extraordinaire of the local burger joint. 'All the positions are filled by people a million times more perspicacious than you. Better luck next time.' As Kyle walked away he muttered maliciously, 'The joke's on you Bobby-Rae... The joke's on you.'"
ARMY OF SKANKS: a play
ACT I Scene 1
[Inside Delta Delta Delta's house we join two "sisters" in the middle of a
heated debate concerning choice of ensemble]
Cindy: Karen, you know the rules. Only jean minis on days hotter than 55.
Karen: I'm tired of that stupid rule. Beisdes all my jean minis are at the dry
cleaners and these gaucho pants would look hot with your lilac baby t.
Cindy: You know we can only wear gauchos on Friday. What's wrong with you? Have
you lost all respect for sisterhood unity?
Karen: I don't care about the stupid rules anymore. I'm gonna wear this outfit
and look hotter than all of you!
Cindy: Have you gone mad? (takes out thick black book and ruffles through the
pages) Here it is, (reading from the book)"Rule # 2342: Absolutely NO
independent thought of any kind, EVER!" Okay? I know you know that, sometimes
we just need to remind eachother. So just calm down. Besides, if your big hears
you talking like that she'll have to report you and Jen will make you the
designated driver on Friday.
Karen: Whatever. I was actuallly considering poisoning the margaritas so that
you'd all DIE!
Cindy: Fine, it's your ass on the line and I'm sick of arguing about it.
Anyways, is this outfit slutty or trashy?
Karen: I think it's perfectly slutty but classy too.
Karen and Cindy(chanting):DELTA DELTA DELTA, classy whores unite!
(they giggle and hug)
[CURTAIN]
[Inside Delta Delta Delta's house we join two "sisters" in the middle of a
heated debate concerning choice of ensemble]
Cindy: Karen, you know the rules. Only jean minis on days hotter than 55.
Karen: I'm tired of that stupid rule. Beisdes all my jean minis are at the dry
cleaners and these gaucho pants would look hot with your lilac baby t.
Cindy: You know we can only wear gauchos on Friday. What's wrong with you? Have
you lost all respect for sisterhood unity?
Karen: I don't care about the stupid rules anymore. I'm gonna wear this outfit
and look hotter than all of you!
Cindy: Have you gone mad? (takes out thick black book and ruffles through the
pages) Here it is, (reading from the book)"Rule # 2342: Absolutely NO
independent thought of any kind, EVER!" Okay? I know you know that, sometimes
we just need to remind eachother. So just calm down. Besides, if your big hears
you talking like that she'll have to report you and Jen will make you the
designated driver on Friday.
Karen: Whatever. I was actuallly considering poisoning the margaritas so that
you'd all DIE!
Cindy: Fine, it's your ass on the line and I'm sick of arguing about it.
Anyways, is this outfit slutty or trashy?
Karen: I think it's perfectly slutty but classy too.
Karen and Cindy(chanting):DELTA DELTA DELTA, classy whores unite!
(they giggle and hug)
[CURTAIN]
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Death to Jacqueline A.
My dear colleagues,
My maiden entry to this fine forum has been long over due. I too have been intimidated by the excellence of your postings. And while I was pleased to see Jacqueline question the worth of flexitarians, I was disappointed that I was now the last to venture into the friscalating dusklight.
Then I was simply angered (though fascinated and concerned) by Jacqueline's report chronicling the dangers of wearing contacts while sleeping.
I apologize for my tardiness. In penance, I offer to you a haiku describing our beloved Friends of the Library booksale.
Ahem. . .
Box filled blessed hall
Abondoned yarns wordsmiths wove
Spent blissful hour
My maiden entry to this fine forum has been long over due. I too have been intimidated by the excellence of your postings. And while I was pleased to see Jacqueline question the worth of flexitarians, I was disappointed that I was now the last to venture into the friscalating dusklight.
Then I was simply angered (though fascinated and concerned) by Jacqueline's report chronicling the dangers of wearing contacts while sleeping.
I apologize for my tardiness. In penance, I offer to you a haiku describing our beloved Friends of the Library booksale.
Ahem. . .
Box filled blessed hall
Abondoned yarns wordsmiths wove
Spent blissful hour
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
It's like rain on your rooftop when she calls
Usually, when I post it takes me a good 10-15 minutes to come up with something that is worthwhile to write, but today I buck tradition and orthodoxy and instead take up arms with my temporary compatriots, the postmodernists and attempt a freewrite - my own unhindered consciousness unleashed on this medium of the book blog.
What is consciousness? Is it like a light in a lamp, or is it the lamp itself? Perhaps, being restricted by only being able to think about consciousness within the confines of one's own consciousness will forever restrict us from understanding the nature of our thoughts - but I expect not. Why? You ask. Well, I don't know. But I'm ok with that.
Moving on, what's the deal with male nipples? They provide no precious beverage and they don't even look that great. I wonder, if a male was born without nipples, would we call it a man, or would we kill it, because we are scared of it and its nippleless, skin-covered upper-abdomen and its strange language of clicks and guttural grunts. He , or it would say, "Huruck k k k Kalick Kloop Ghoortee foo," and we would just look at him and wonder, because if it doesn't have nipples, it must not have a soul, but it probably still tastes pretty good.
Can't take it much longer. Fight the beast - eat the rainforest - who's whitey - rabid rapid rhinocerous - fight him! - spears the natives cry for resolution without angst@zulushack_of_ribs.common
Signed,
Runs with Scissors
What is consciousness? Is it like a light in a lamp, or is it the lamp itself? Perhaps, being restricted by only being able to think about consciousness within the confines of one's own consciousness will forever restrict us from understanding the nature of our thoughts - but I expect not. Why? You ask. Well, I don't know. But I'm ok with that.
Moving on, what's the deal with male nipples? They provide no precious beverage and they don't even look that great. I wonder, if a male was born without nipples, would we call it a man, or would we kill it, because we are scared of it and its nippleless, skin-covered upper-abdomen and its strange language of clicks and guttural grunts. He , or it would say, "Huruck k k k Kalick Kloop Ghoortee foo," and we would just look at him and wonder, because if it doesn't have nipples, it must not have a soul, but it probably still tastes pretty good.
Can't take it much longer. Fight the beast - eat the rainforest - who's whitey - rabid rapid rhinocerous - fight him! - spears the natives cry for resolution without angst@zulushack_of_ribs.common
Signed,
Runs with Scissors
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Sic transit gloria mundi - so passes away the glory of this world
To be creative. To inspire new, non-normative cognitive confections and then revel in the glory that is yours, and theirs. Sweet - like Egyptian cotton.
Nevertheless, my fair comrades, glory fades. It's like Churchill once said.
Glory. Can you eat it? Can you use it to buy cigarettes or drugs? No. And yet it fades like the dew of foothills in summer heat - a vapourous 'dog that returns to its own vomit.'
Here today. Gone tommorrow. A futile cycle - or is it?
Nevertheless, my fair comrades, glory fades. It's like Churchill once said.
Glory. Can you eat it? Can you use it to buy cigarettes or drugs? No. And yet it fades like the dew of foothills in summer heat - a vapourous 'dog that returns to its own vomit.'
Here today. Gone tommorrow. A futile cycle - or is it?
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Corneal injuries and other misfortunes
I was hesistant to share my story with the members of The book club. I have to say I am quite intimidated by the clever diction that is characteristic of this site but then I thought "Who the hell cares what they think?" Dr. Kleeman said it would be good for me to find a creative outlet for my anger and bitterness, and since he's been a pretty good shrink so far I thought I'd give it a try. This is a narrative of my recent tragedy...
Monday, March 1st 1:17am
I was exhausted from a long day of classes and was on the verge of my dreamland when I glanced across the dark room and noticed definite edges to my closet and that the large red digital numbers on my clock were clear. I was immediately filled with rage..."How could you have been so stupid?!? You're still wearing your contacts!!....Oh well, I've done it before and nothing happened. One night won't hurt." I then allowed myself to slip into slumber, little did I know that this decision would haunt me for weeks.
Sunday, March 13th 8:30am
I awoke with a start. My right eye was burning and leaking as if my water main had broken. I tried to open my eyes, it was no use, my inflamed lid wouldn't budge. I blindly made my way down the ladder of my lofted bed and felt my way to the couch. I sat down defeated. My life was over, I would never be able to see again. I forced my eyes open and proceeded to prepare myself for church. I sat through church sniffling and mopping my ever-watering eye. Everyone thought I was being moved by the holy spirit, but no, all I could think of was how bright the room seemed and how I might as well gouge my eye out.
Sunday, March 13th 12:30pm
I laid on my couch wallowing in my own tears and self-pity. I called my mother who then asked me to call my brother. When my brother arrived we went to the emergency room of Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center. The doctor shined this unbelievably bright light into my eye for what seemed like an eternity. It was official, I had injured my cornea from sleeping with my contacts in. (I am not to wear my contacts for at least a month but they did give me vicodin!)
Monday, March 14th
I sat in my dark room not going out into the sunlight all day. I didn't want anyone to see my wretchedness. " You can't produce your vitamin D without the sun" I say to myself, but that doesn't matter anymore. Different friends stop by throughout the day mostly with good wishes but my favorite visitors came bearing a jr. bacon cheeseburger and a mostly melted frosty. They were delicious, the visitors that is.
Tuesday, March 15th 2:20pm
I am feeling much recovered and have realized that the Royal Tenenbaums DVD has some great extras!
May my story be a lesson to you all. Do what the doctors say they seem to know what they're talking about.
Monday, March 1st 1:17am
I was exhausted from a long day of classes and was on the verge of my dreamland when I glanced across the dark room and noticed definite edges to my closet and that the large red digital numbers on my clock were clear. I was immediately filled with rage..."How could you have been so stupid?!? You're still wearing your contacts!!....Oh well, I've done it before and nothing happened. One night won't hurt." I then allowed myself to slip into slumber, little did I know that this decision would haunt me for weeks.
Sunday, March 13th 8:30am
I awoke with a start. My right eye was burning and leaking as if my water main had broken. I tried to open my eyes, it was no use, my inflamed lid wouldn't budge. I blindly made my way down the ladder of my lofted bed and felt my way to the couch. I sat down defeated. My life was over, I would never be able to see again. I forced my eyes open and proceeded to prepare myself for church. I sat through church sniffling and mopping my ever-watering eye. Everyone thought I was being moved by the holy spirit, but no, all I could think of was how bright the room seemed and how I might as well gouge my eye out.
Sunday, March 13th 12:30pm
I laid on my couch wallowing in my own tears and self-pity. I called my mother who then asked me to call my brother. When my brother arrived we went to the emergency room of Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center. The doctor shined this unbelievably bright light into my eye for what seemed like an eternity. It was official, I had injured my cornea from sleeping with my contacts in. (I am not to wear my contacts for at least a month but they did give me vicodin!)
Monday, March 14th
I sat in my dark room not going out into the sunlight all day. I didn't want anyone to see my wretchedness. " You can't produce your vitamin D without the sun" I say to myself, but that doesn't matter anymore. Different friends stop by throughout the day mostly with good wishes but my favorite visitors came bearing a jr. bacon cheeseburger and a mostly melted frosty. They were delicious, the visitors that is.
Tuesday, March 15th 2:20pm
I am feeling much recovered and have realized that the Royal Tenenbaums DVD has some great extras!
May my story be a lesson to you all. Do what the doctors say they seem to know what they're talking about.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Flexitarians, the bottom dwellers of society
The FDA has recently coined the new term flexitarian, "an individual who mostly eats vegetables with an occassional serving of meat." Being a strict vegetarian myself I am appalled that these aforementioned individuals have come up with a new category for their lack of self-control. I was once a meat addict and I know how tantalizing a T-bone steak can be. It seems as though you will never feel sorry enough for those animals to keep you away from that slice of meatloaf.... the critters have already been killed right? so it'll be okay to just have a bite, right?....WRONG! If we don't stop this wave of hypocrisy our battle against meat will be lost forever. With these "flexitarians" we may never be taken seriously. We've been working so hard for equal rights with the meat-eating population, we can't let these gluttons bring us down! Vegetarians unite and don't stand for excuses such as "nutrient value" or "protein deficiency" we must encourage these flexitarians to finish their transformation or go back where they came from!!
Friday, March 11, 2005
Joel and Chris' list of stuff to do over Spring Break (2005) that will shame everyone and their mother
1) Hike at Smith Rock - all uphill, while fasting (from food, water, and Dan Brown novels)
2) Go to Beach: While at beach, get a suntan, read many leatherbound books, smell of rich mahogany, eat a jellyfish, pour one out for our departed homie Keiko (RIP my big black and white brother...or sister...or gender-neutral whale), eat at Joel's parents' expense (Lobster!).
3) Write best-selling novella (A short prose tale often characterized by moral teaching or satire.) Title = Park Place Treachery: A coming of age tale of boyscouts, moral teaching, and satire.
4) Go to Portland, visit Chris' estranged brother,
5) Become two with nature, because becoming "one" in the biblical sense with a spruce would be downright painful, illegal, and could attract bears.
6) Write Joel's thesis (I'm not kidding. I really do have to write my thesis).
7) Make oodles of noodles and cash (Chris working at Red Horse - drop in and pay a visit, where everyone knows your name, but you wish they didn't, the good ol' Red Horse Coffee Company in historic downtown Corvallis).
8) Get Joel a haircut - actually, first drive out the family of rats that has infested Joel's mane with a cat, and then get a haircut, unless of course that draws a dog, in which case we may have to visit the zoo - you know, to get a panda...or some other ferocious quadriped.
9) Read lots of great literature - first on Chris' list is "Madame Hunchback" (see comment on Christine's previous post. First on Joel's list - Baker's Encyclopedia of Christian Apologetics
10) Kill Harry Potter
2) Go to Beach: While at beach, get a suntan, read many leatherbound books, smell of rich mahogany, eat a jellyfish, pour one out for our departed homie Keiko (RIP my big black and white brother...or sister...or gender-neutral whale), eat at Joel's parents' expense (Lobster!).
3) Write best-selling novella (A short prose tale often characterized by moral teaching or satire.) Title = Park Place Treachery: A coming of age tale of boyscouts, moral teaching, and satire.
4) Go to Portland, visit Chris' estranged brother,
5) Become two with nature, because becoming "one" in the biblical sense with a spruce would be downright painful, illegal, and could attract bears.
6) Write Joel's thesis (I'm not kidding. I really do have to write my thesis).
7) Make oodles of noodles and cash (Chris working at Red Horse - drop in and pay a visit, where everyone knows your name, but you wish they didn't, the good ol' Red Horse Coffee Company in historic downtown Corvallis).
8) Get Joel a haircut - actually, first drive out the family of rats that has infested Joel's mane with a cat, and then get a haircut, unless of course that draws a dog, in which case we may have to visit the zoo - you know, to get a panda...or some other ferocious quadriped.
9) Read lots of great literature - first on Chris' list is "Madame Hunchback" (see comment on Christine's previous post. First on Joel's list - Baker's Encyclopedia of Christian Apologetics
10) Kill Harry Potter
Thursday, March 10, 2005
To Katie
To Katie: A Poem in Commemoration of Your Completion of Les Miserables.
You completed Les Mis in record time.
Pages turning, turning, turning.
You must have asked yourself, like many an ignorant student in the past,
Will Jean Valjean EVER die?
(Yes, of course he will, but not until he has surpassed the days of Melchizidek).
But no, callous fool, Jean Valjean lives on.
He is in the traces of every convict ever written,
He is in every oppressed person -
In every oppressed person, crushed by the weight of reality
and left reeling in the darkness of utter despair.
Yes, Jean Valjean is the theme of this song -
He inspires awe and wonder, and (dare I say it) incredulity.
How did you do it, Jean?
You maintained upper body strength into your 100's,
You fled from Javier with the nimble tip-toeings of a young beetle,
and with the speed of a cunning she-fox.
You changed your identity multiple times,
You saved lives,
And when I saw you in London you sang opera-style
without skipping a beat.
Oh, Jean, immortal and inextinguishable
(until you eventually died),
How does my banal existence compare
with your heights of joy and pits of depression?
I have saved no prostitutes, I have been no mayor,
I have never stolen silver, and I have never been saved by a clever old bishop with a heart of gold.
And so I resign myself to the monotonous
routine of my shabbily executed life.
But take heart, oh weary soul!
Somewhere, out there, there is an adventure of sorts,
just waiting for my unparalleled, fame-deserving, latent skills.
You completed Les Mis in record time.
Pages turning, turning, turning.
You must have asked yourself, like many an ignorant student in the past,
Will Jean Valjean EVER die?
(Yes, of course he will, but not until he has surpassed the days of Melchizidek).
But no, callous fool, Jean Valjean lives on.
He is in the traces of every convict ever written,
He is in every oppressed person -
In every oppressed person, crushed by the weight of reality
and left reeling in the darkness of utter despair.
Yes, Jean Valjean is the theme of this song -
He inspires awe and wonder, and (dare I say it) incredulity.
How did you do it, Jean?
You maintained upper body strength into your 100's,
You fled from Javier with the nimble tip-toeings of a young beetle,
and with the speed of a cunning she-fox.
You changed your identity multiple times,
You saved lives,
And when I saw you in London you sang opera-style
without skipping a beat.
Oh, Jean, immortal and inextinguishable
(until you eventually died),
How does my banal existence compare
with your heights of joy and pits of depression?
I have saved no prostitutes, I have been no mayor,
I have never stolen silver, and I have never been saved by a clever old bishop with a heart of gold.
And so I resign myself to the monotonous
routine of my shabbily executed life.
But take heart, oh weary soul!
Somewhere, out there, there is an adventure of sorts,
just waiting for my unparalleled, fame-deserving, latent skills.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Suggested Book List
Dearest friends,
In keeping with the spirit of The Book Club (namely, to read so many books that others are intimidated to the point of drooling when they are around us) I would like to take this opportunity to post my reading list for 2005/2006.
Madame Bovary
Huchback of Notre Dame
Tender is the Night
The Complete Oxford Dictionary
The Moon and Sixpence
War and Peace
Old Man and the Sea
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
Wuthering Heights
Strong's Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible
This may seem intimidating to the less ambitious of you, but let me remind you of what a sagacious man once said: "Read, you idiot!"
I look to you for encouragement and companionship as I undertake this tedious (but rewarding) journey to the Land of Knowledge and Happiness.
Chris "The Comrade"
In keeping with the spirit of The Book Club (namely, to read so many books that others are intimidated to the point of drooling when they are around us) I would like to take this opportunity to post my reading list for 2005/2006.
Madame Bovary
Huchback of Notre Dame
Tender is the Night
The Complete Oxford Dictionary
The Moon and Sixpence
War and Peace
Old Man and the Sea
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
Wuthering Heights
Strong's Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible
This may seem intimidating to the less ambitious of you, but let me remind you of what a sagacious man once said: "Read, you idiot!"
I look to you for encouragement and companionship as I undertake this tedious (but rewarding) journey to the Land of Knowledge and Happiness.
Chris "The Comrade"
Friday, March 04, 2005
City Daze (pt. 1)
Smoke little by little spilled from Maria’s pursed, red lips.
“You’re a fuck-up, John,” was the last thing she spoke before turning to face the door, dropping her cigarette on the parquet floor and leaving John nearly unconscious and as near death as he had ever been. The sheen of Maria’s dusky, brown hair was the last memory she would leave him.
He lay quietly: supine and motionless on the firm couch. His glassy eyes remained frozen under the beads of sweat on his brow, and the scars on his dangling arms told volumes of long, feather-light nights spent happier than this.
John’s thoughts were tangled from the years of abuse, where the control he once retained had been lost in a swirling and ever-receding sensation of paradise, but still, he knew that Maria was right. He was a fuck-up.
With that last conscious thought, sleep, or rather nothingness found John in his upper east side apartment over-looking the city, and with Maria’s departure he slipped from reality’s grasp.
To be continued…
Cormant Macgruder
“You’re a fuck-up, John,” was the last thing she spoke before turning to face the door, dropping her cigarette on the parquet floor and leaving John nearly unconscious and as near death as he had ever been. The sheen of Maria’s dusky, brown hair was the last memory she would leave him.
He lay quietly: supine and motionless on the firm couch. His glassy eyes remained frozen under the beads of sweat on his brow, and the scars on his dangling arms told volumes of long, feather-light nights spent happier than this.
John’s thoughts were tangled from the years of abuse, where the control he once retained had been lost in a swirling and ever-receding sensation of paradise, but still, he knew that Maria was right. He was a fuck-up.
With that last conscious thought, sleep, or rather nothingness found John in his upper east side apartment over-looking the city, and with Maria’s departure he slipped from reality’s grasp.
To be continued…
Cormant Macgruder
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Upon the Horizon
The day has dawned in the east, and still I lay unmoved from my nocturnal prostration. Unroused remain my passions and fervor for life. Heed not does my consciousness to the crowing of yonder cock. Energy sapped, lifesong unsung. What once was readiness and anticipation for a new day, now is buried deep in my bosom, mutilated by a winter's stoning, pulverized by some academic mallet.
It is the ninth week. Seven days shy of the week of death and calamity. Half a moon cycle from the ultimate judgment. The falcon of final examinations is high above folding it's wings in preparation for it's speedy dive upon the young fowl in careless flight, with the end goal of breaking it's feathered neck. Beware of the falcon, it's beak is like iron and it's accuracy unparalleled.
It is the ninth week. Seven days shy of the week of death and calamity. Half a moon cycle from the ultimate judgment. The falcon of final examinations is high above folding it's wings in preparation for it's speedy dive upon the young fowl in careless flight, with the end goal of breaking it's feathered neck. Beware of the falcon, it's beak is like iron and it's accuracy unparalleled.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature. ~ Lawrence Durrell (1912-90)
RRROOAAAMM and WOOOSSSCH is right!
A Haiku:
In morning rays shine,
colors form thoughts from without,
the skin, it glistens.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Chapter One
Chapter One: "Oh Petey, so seemingly strong and brave. I guess it took a silly little thing like a dance to show us what a coward you actually are."
You were a member of every club on campus. You were the head of your fraternity. You graced the cover of the Barometer numerous times, your eyes shining like the sun, and your biceps flexed casually. On sunny days we would see you, playing frisbee golf in the quad, laughing harmlessly at your own witticisms.
Your mirth was a beacon of hope for all the students who stood listlessly on the outskirts of popularity. You were a nice guy - maybe one day you would notice their meaningless existence and reach out to bring them some kernal of joy. If you only knew how many miserable nights they would stay awake, playing endless games of "Magic," not knowing that life was passing them by.
Little did we know that you would soon become the apogee of the college experience. LIttle did we know that your status was fraudulent. You were just a jerk, weren't you?
But I am getting ahead of myself. In order to realize your spectatcular rise and fall, we must rember back to a little day I like to call "November 2nd, 2003." Oh, Petey, do you remember the myriad of glances we exchanged that delightful day in the animal shelter?...
To be Continued.
(Names have been changed to protect privacy).
You were a member of every club on campus. You were the head of your fraternity. You graced the cover of the Barometer numerous times, your eyes shining like the sun, and your biceps flexed casually. On sunny days we would see you, playing frisbee golf in the quad, laughing harmlessly at your own witticisms.
Your mirth was a beacon of hope for all the students who stood listlessly on the outskirts of popularity. You were a nice guy - maybe one day you would notice their meaningless existence and reach out to bring them some kernal of joy. If you only knew how many miserable nights they would stay awake, playing endless games of "Magic," not knowing that life was passing them by.
Little did we know that you would soon become the apogee of the college experience. LIttle did we know that your status was fraudulent. You were just a jerk, weren't you?
But I am getting ahead of myself. In order to realize your spectatcular rise and fall, we must rember back to a little day I like to call "November 2nd, 2003." Oh, Petey, do you remember the myriad of glances we exchanged that delightful day in the animal shelter?...
To be Continued.
(Names have been changed to protect privacy).
Just Call Me Sally
After perusing the delightful commentary of my distinguished colleagues and fellow literary inamoratas, I felt none too eager to compose my much anticipated first entry. An expressed angst of a similar breed, previously mentioned by Nicholas, has hitherto been dubbed unfounded and perhaps the same luxury will be granted my nerves. And when I say perhaps, I mean, "if you jokesters fail to praise my elevated diction and highly innovative style I think I might die." That said, I'll now attempt a short story meant to leave a sensation of pleasure and saitsfaction in the very depths of your plaque filled arteries.
"School's out for the summer!" Susie yelled, running down senior hall with a grin as big as a bus on her lily white face. "You shouldn't try to tell jokes
if you're too stupid to do it right," I cooly retorted after punching her lights out. Cold as a wet brick she sunk to the floor. I knew full well she
hadn't heard my clever quip, but I didn't really care. I calmly stepped over the pool of blood now growing rapidly under the head of the unconscious victim.
Someone slapped me five and someone else slapped my butt. "You've done us proud," shouted a raspy voice from the newly formed crowd as I fought to supress the smile that begged to be shown on my face. Without another word, I slowly sauntered away, the shouts of the crowd weakening as I went. Turning the corner at the end of the hall, I broke into a run...and a sweat consequently. Running through the band room I dared not stop to grab my flute from the instrument room. "One day without practicing isn't going to end the world," I reassured myself, though I didn't believe it at all. Down the stairs, out the cafeteria doors, and into the parking lot I ran. Realizing my car was in its senior spot, quite artistically painted I might add, on the other side of the building, I turned to surge up the hill.
I was nearly halfway up that stupid hill, when I stopped and yelled out, addressing myself of course, "What the hell am I doing?"
"What the hell haven't you done?" I heard a voice calmly say. I turned to see the voice had come from Officer Dirk and he looked none too happy. I walked over to him and blankly stared ahead of me. He slapped the cuffs on without a trace of resistance from myself. Ducking my head into the back seat of the squad car was satisfying in a strangely familiar way, and I let out a laugh. I was going home, I thought, and boy was I glad.
"School's out for the summer!" Susie yelled, running down senior hall with a grin as big as a bus on her lily white face. "You shouldn't try to tell jokes
if you're too stupid to do it right," I cooly retorted after punching her lights out. Cold as a wet brick she sunk to the floor. I knew full well she
hadn't heard my clever quip, but I didn't really care. I calmly stepped over the pool of blood now growing rapidly under the head of the unconscious victim.
Someone slapped me five and someone else slapped my butt. "You've done us proud," shouted a raspy voice from the newly formed crowd as I fought to supress the smile that begged to be shown on my face. Without another word, I slowly sauntered away, the shouts of the crowd weakening as I went. Turning the corner at the end of the hall, I broke into a run...and a sweat consequently. Running through the band room I dared not stop to grab my flute from the instrument room. "One day without practicing isn't going to end the world," I reassured myself, though I didn't believe it at all. Down the stairs, out the cafeteria doors, and into the parking lot I ran. Realizing my car was in its senior spot, quite artistically painted I might add, on the other side of the building, I turned to surge up the hill.
I was nearly halfway up that stupid hill, when I stopped and yelled out, addressing myself of course, "What the hell am I doing?"
"What the hell haven't you done?" I heard a voice calmly say. I turned to see the voice had come from Officer Dirk and he looked none too happy. I walked over to him and blankly stared ahead of me. He slapped the cuffs on without a trace of resistance from myself. Ducking my head into the back seat of the squad car was satisfying in a strangely familiar way, and I let out a laugh. I was going home, I thought, and boy was I glad.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
One out of Four College Textbooks Becomes the Victim of a Bibliophile every Minute (Statistics for the Liar, V. 77, June 32, 1834)
...but only one in 7 indecent assaults is reported.
Question 1: What book would you like to read?
Question 2: When should we read it?
Question 3: Why do men have nipples?
We need a quorum of at least three members according to the by-laws (Section III.b) regarding these issues. Please, post suggestions and/or votes in the comments section.
Note: The Quiet American, by Graham Greene has been suggested. Other suggestions would be appreciated.
Best,
The Honorable Rev. Dr. Joel A.K. III esquire ThD ThM PhD etc. etc. etc.
Question 1: What book would you like to read?
Question 2: When should we read it?
Question 3: Why do men have nipples?
We need a quorum of at least three members according to the by-laws (Section III.b) regarding these issues. Please, post suggestions and/or votes in the comments section.
Note: The Quiet American, by Graham Greene has been suggested. Other suggestions would be appreciated.
Best,
The Honorable Rev. Dr. Joel A.K. III esquire ThD ThM PhD etc. etc. etc.
Ye Fellow Knaves
In keeping with the times and fashion, I now offer my own maiden post. I am rather reluctant, however, to submit my work to this forum. This apprehension is undoubtedly due to a slight worry that my work might seem trite and inferior in comparison to the work of the other, already renowned contributors. But, I must forge on and bring my voice to the public, lest any ability and imagination that I may possess rot like a leprous appendage.
I assure you all that the book club and the so aptly named web log will strive to foster a well rounded, friendly environment to those artists who desire to become familiar with works of classic literature and western thought. We, the administration, desire Into the Friscalating Dusklight to be your outlet of creative prose and verse. All are welcomed and strongly encouraged to post whatever thoughts or ideas spring to mind.
I bid you adieu.
Edward Appleby
Vice Provost of Internal Affairs
and
Chief of Security
I assure you all that the book club and the so aptly named web log will strive to foster a well rounded, friendly environment to those artists who desire to become familiar with works of classic literature and western thought. We, the administration, desire Into the Friscalating Dusklight to be your outlet of creative prose and verse. All are welcomed and strongly encouraged to post whatever thoughts or ideas spring to mind.
I bid you adieu.
Edward Appleby
Vice Provost of Internal Affairs
and
Chief of Security
Monday, February 21, 2005
Mimsy Were the Borogoves...and the Momewraths!
I quoth Machiavelli:
...the gulf between how one should live and how one does live is so wide that a man who neglects what is actually done for what should be done learns the way to self-destruction rather than self-preservation.
The idealist is doomed, says Niccolo, and yet I pine for ideals. For instance, what is the ideal, the foremost, the summum bonum of literary works for which my time can be dovoted in this noble effort we call the book club. The ideal book, as our resident poet extraordinaire has explained, must lift us to great heights, both mentally and emotionally - not to create in man a dichotomy, of course. The ideal book for the book club must be a classic, it must be short (we are scholars of other disciplines with limited time), and it must be like delightful candy - sweet, and creating in the reader a sense of joy, mirth, and wanton pleasure. When we are done, we will all rejoice and make merry having been stuffed to the rafters which such goodness.
Perhaps, Graham Greene's The Quiet American
One reviewer summarized: "Fowler (the main character) is a perfect Graham Greene protagonist--the man who has no particular moral, religious or political beliefs who finds himself perched on a moral precipice--with moral redemption on one side and the moral abyss on the other."
What book says you?
...the gulf between how one should live and how one does live is so wide that a man who neglects what is actually done for what should be done learns the way to self-destruction rather than self-preservation.
The idealist is doomed, says Niccolo, and yet I pine for ideals. For instance, what is the ideal, the foremost, the summum bonum of literary works for which my time can be dovoted in this noble effort we call the book club. The ideal book, as our resident poet extraordinaire has explained, must lift us to great heights, both mentally and emotionally - not to create in man a dichotomy, of course. The ideal book for the book club must be a classic, it must be short (we are scholars of other disciplines with limited time), and it must be like delightful candy - sweet, and creating in the reader a sense of joy, mirth, and wanton pleasure. When we are done, we will all rejoice and make merry having been stuffed to the rafters which such goodness.
Perhaps, Graham Greene's The Quiet American
One reviewer summarized: "Fowler (the main character) is a perfect Graham Greene protagonist--the man who has no particular moral, religious or political beliefs who finds himself perched on a moral precipice--with moral redemption on one side and the moral abyss on the other."
What book says you?
An Ode to Books
Oh blessed pages that smell so musky and ancient!
Oh charming letters that form words that are etched eternally on my heart!
You take me deep into the ocean of emotion,
And fill my eyes with tears overflowing.
I am now a sailor, now an author, now a mother, now a warrior –
All these roles I can experience as I peruse your tinted pages.
I am now a jilted lover, a homeless wanderer, a ghost –
Thanks to your story I can be all these things.
But tell me why, oh Source of all Wisdom,
Why can I not stay forever bound by your spell?
Cruel Reality breaks my bones as it pulls me back from your arms.
Crushed once, and crushed again –
I am battered and broken from the spiteful joy you take
In ruining my peaceful reverie.
Curse you, Reality, the bane of my purity and joy!
Curse you, Homework, Phonecalls, and Chores:
I hate you for the havoc you wreak upon my virginal peace!
But the eternal cycle moves swiftly on,
Taking me to the height of pure emotion, and then pulling me back down to the miry pit of life.
Oh charming letters that form words that are etched eternally on my heart!
You take me deep into the ocean of emotion,
And fill my eyes with tears overflowing.
I am now a sailor, now an author, now a mother, now a warrior –
All these roles I can experience as I peruse your tinted pages.
I am now a jilted lover, a homeless wanderer, a ghost –
Thanks to your story I can be all these things.
But tell me why, oh Source of all Wisdom,
Why can I not stay forever bound by your spell?
Cruel Reality breaks my bones as it pulls me back from your arms.
Crushed once, and crushed again –
I am battered and broken from the spiteful joy you take
In ruining my peaceful reverie.
Curse you, Reality, the bane of my purity and joy!
Curse you, Homework, Phonecalls, and Chores:
I hate you for the havoc you wreak upon my virginal peace!
But the eternal cycle moves swiftly on,
Taking me to the height of pure emotion, and then pulling me back down to the miry pit of life.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
First Post EVER!!!!
Holy Crap!!!! This is the first post on "IntoTheFriscalatingDusklight," bar-none the greatest blog of the most sophisticated and postmodern book club in the history of this race we genially call mankind (no offense to the females, of course, who make life worth the livin').
I ask you one thing as we begin this journey together, "Is Latin dead?" For if we answer in the affirmative, who are we? And who are you? Odds are, you can't even read, you lowlife! Who are you to question a beautiful language?
"The crickets and the rust-beetles scuttled among the nettles of the sage thicket. 'Vamanos, amigos,' he whispered, and threw the busted leather flintcraw over the loose weave of the saddlecock. And they rode on into the friscalating dusklight." ~ Our beloved Eli Cash
I ask you one thing as we begin this journey together, "Is Latin dead?" For if we answer in the affirmative, who are we? And who are you? Odds are, you can't even read, you lowlife! Who are you to question a beautiful language?
"The crickets and the rust-beetles scuttled among the nettles of the sage thicket. 'Vamanos, amigos,' he whispered, and threw the busted leather flintcraw over the loose weave of the saddlecock. And they rode on into the friscalating dusklight." ~ Our beloved Eli Cash
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