tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44857022011547264612024-02-18T22:49:58.457-05:00By Chris StewartActor, Bookworm, Instructor, BloggerUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger317125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-20185632240097215102010-10-13T11:27:00.002-04:002012-02-08T06:31:24.042-05:00Catfish"And I got the part. I began to take classes. Sense-memory exercises. Practice making things real. Before your performance create a reality for yourself to step into. I remember that when I began taking class we'd have a pretend teacup and pretend to drink from it. How hot is it, how full is it, is there a saucer, is there a spoon, are you going to put sugar in it, how many lumps. And then you sip it, and others were transported by this stuff, but I never found any of it helpful. What's more, I couldn't do it. I was no good at the exercises, no good at all. I'd try to do this stuff and it never would work.... I'd look ridiculous as I held my pretend teacup and pretended to drink from it. There was always a sly voice inside me saying, 'There is no teacup.'"<br />
<br />
-- Philip Roth, <i>The Humbling</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
--<br />
<br />
Really need to stop buying books on impulse. Not that I need to deliberate for weeks and fill a special jar labeled "next book money," but two days ago when I walked into the <a href="http://www.bookwormomaha.com/">Bookworm</a> in West Omaha the first title that jumped at me (actually it was the humongous "ROTH" printed above the title) I removed from the rack and stuck it under my arm, and there it stayed until I laid it on the checkout counter.<br />
<br />
Full disclosure: I was there to buy <i><a href="http://www.google.com/search?rlz=1C1SNNT_enUS356US356&aq=0&oq=the+great&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8&q=the+great+gatsby#q=the+great+gatsby&hl=en&rlz=1C1SNNT_enUS356US356&prmd=ivnb&tbs=tl:1&tbo=u&ei=Ncm1TPK6C8WBlAfr2OztBQ&sa=X&oi=timeline_result&ct=title&resnum=19&ved=0CIcBEOcCMBI&fp=5a996d56de453056">The Great Gatsby</a>,</i> because my baby sister just started reading it in 11th-grade English and when I scanned my stacks for my own copy, I was shocked to find I never had one.<br />
<br />
Anyway, <i>The Humbling</i> is good so far: sort of like Roth's <i>Everyman</i> but with a theatrical bent. The protagonist is an ailing actor bewildered by the impotence of his lost talent. Some great passages in there that every actor can relate to (and maybe any artist: at one point he says, "You can get very good at getting by on what you get by on when you don't have anything else," which is sort of brilliant).<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Snapped at a co-worker last night. Felt bad about it. Maybe "snapped" is the wrong word. "Coldly accepted criticism" is more accurate. I was swamped. I felt he was telling me how to do my job. I coldly accepted his criticism.<br />
<br />
Went through a phase when this was the norm. After working in Scotland a few years back, I caught this (European?) snobbishness that made me assertive and assholish when I came back. I wrote emails with flippant confidence, I spoke to superiors with audacity and passivity, I kissed a girl out of nowhere and nothing, for no real reason. I bought booze specifically so I could talk about it. I tried to give looks to people that implied I was waiting for them to make up their minds. I swaggered.<br />
<br />
The chill lasted about half an hour, when I felt guilt like a headache. I apologized and he said he was only trying to help and I said I knew.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://draft.blogger.com/goog_851896736">Catfish</a>, </i>incidentally, is only showing at one cinema in Omaha, about fifteen minutes west from work, and I got out there to see it. Was very excited, was ready to enjoy. Go figure: I enjoyed it. Probably a better movie about Facebook than <i>The Social Network,</i> which is really a myth about how websites are created and a parable of wealth. <i>Catfish</i> is not as shattering as the trailer suggests--it's more like a slow spiderweb cracking a windshield. Not so much a movie with a twist as a movie with a paradigm shift that keeps pushing and pushing.<br />
<br />
See it if you get the chance.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Rehearsals start in a few days. It'll be nice to do That again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-39790635183368225602010-10-09T09:47:00.000-04:002010-10-09T09:47:20.020-04:00Backing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGrI6vGEd-EzNeeAc1GXzu5Pn9Z0smgoiWMvz0NevNTQwU5LAfG2JpaAYD_WFGjk6uANSgaXD1xwQDEEMYOH7NBme3kXWTA4OCaa7Uc23zl_ZlqKEZJ5mTWJ4qwcKX_Xfp9pKLtvDONQ/s1600/IMAG0087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGrI6vGEd-EzNeeAc1GXzu5Pn9Z0smgoiWMvz0NevNTQwU5LAfG2JpaAYD_WFGjk6uANSgaXD1xwQDEEMYOH7NBme3kXWTA4OCaa7Uc23zl_ZlqKEZJ5mTWJ4qwcKX_Xfp9pKLtvDONQ/s200/IMAG0087.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>"What Corrigan wanted was a fully believable God, one you could find in the grime of the everyday. The comfort he got from the hard, cold truth--the filth, the war, the poverty--was that life could be capable of small beauties. He wasn't interested in the glorious tales of the afterlife or the notions of a honey-soaked heaven. To him that was a dressing room for hell."<br />
<br />
-- Colum McCann, <i>Let the Great World Spin</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
--<br />
<br />
Been almost a month, I think, back in Nebraska. I brag to distant friends and former co-workers that I have accomplished a lot in a few weeks, but really I have settled a lot. I've settled more than I've sought, attained, conquered. I feel like the heyday of my comeback (such as it is) was the second week, when I nailed three auditions in a row, callbacks subsequent.<br />
<br />
Bam. Bam. Bam.<br />
<br />
And the truest accomplishment in the days following? I finished <i>White Noise.</i> Helluva book. Those last 50 pages are a vicarious speed race confrontation with death and a smooth denouement chaser. And somewhere, a voice on a TV said, "Woo hoo!"<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
<b>So, the jobs. </b>I'm in a show at the local children's theatre, <a href="http://www.rosetheater.org/">The Rose</a>, which runs in a little over a month, <i>for</i> a little over a month. Rehearsals start next week. I'm getting paid--plus--and they've cast me in a spring show, too, playing a flamboyant-tortured-artist-teen. Through the bam-bam auditions, a director funneled me to a talent agency's auditions, where I read one day as a confused patron chewing beef jerky and the next as a puppeteer/cashier trying to sell a lottery ticket. And aside from a brief, ill-prepared foray into the world of Aussie accents, and a grungy visit to read for an independent film, this is what I've got. By way of auditions and roles, anyway.<br />
<br />
I'm teaching, too. My high school drama teacher owns the local dance academy, and every Thursday night I teach the "Broadway" classes: improvisation intro, voice control, expressive movement. Brief lectures. All girls. Forty-five minutes. Out by 7:15.<br />
<br />
And yes, I'm working at a restaurant. Chic and corporate, with bulbous chandeliers and onyx walls, steps of service, pricey cocktails. Had the first blowout VIP party last night, and I bar-backed. Never done it before, gonna do it lots more. There is education in the handling of wine bottles, life lessons in the observation of drinkers, parables in the crating of glasses. It means I'm on a track (of sorts) to becoming a bartender. Months. Until I can flip and shake and twist and shout. I'm also one of few employees allowed into the wine incubator, a glassed-in tower in the middle of everything like a wine phone booth, a shoe box of silence. And maybe it was the deejay's choice of music, the smell of citrus squished into mats, the trimness of the clientèle or the impossibility of crowding behind that bar, but I had a lot of fun. It's challenging, but fun.<br />
<br />
Being a server's assistant is cheesecake. Bar-backing is peanut brittle.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-73908405796065222872010-09-28T16:11:00.000-04:002010-09-28T16:11:15.185-04:00Sushi"We sat in a blood-red booth. Orest gripped the tasseled menu with his chunky hands. His shoulders seemed broader than ever, the serious head partly submerged between them.<br />
<br />
'How's the training going?' I said.<br />
<br />
'I'm slowing it down a little. I don't want to peak too soon. I know how to take care of my body.'<br />
<br />
'Heinrich told me you sleep sitting up, to prepare for the cage.'<br />
<br />
'I perfected that. I'm doing different stuff now.'<br />
<br />
'Like what?'<br />
<br />
'Loading up on carbohydrates.'<br />
<br />
'That's why we came here,' Heinrich said.<br />
<br />
'I load up a little more each day.'<br />
<br />
'It's because of the huge energy he'll be burning up in the cage, being alert, tensing himself when a mamba approaches, whatever.'<br />
<br />
We ordered pasta and water."<br />
<br />
-- Don DeLillo, <i>White Noise</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
--<br />
<br />
Prior to today, I could have counted the number of sushi rolls I'd ever eaten on one hand. The last time was in Seattle, with my sisters, and it was bought in a grocery store but also delicious. I remember the one with the salmon meat wrapped around the rice because I liked it the most. Up to that point, I thought sushi referred to the seaweed wrap and how it was rolled and sliced.<br />
<br />
Today, I had an outrageous amount of sushi. Something like twelve samples, and this after trying more than a dozen of the restaurant's "American" dishes.<br />
<br />
I am bursting and my stomach is making massage noises.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
We've been training for almost a week. The first few sessions were mainly lectures and (embellished) readings from packets we received. We were given CDs with menu items and photos, told to study everything. We were given another set of CDs which contain daily quizzes, reviews to be completed before moving on. We are given gold coins for answering questions and volunteering to do odd jobs like picking up hole-punched paper circles from the carpet with chopsticks. These coins can be redeemed later for all kinds of "expensive" prizes.<br />
<br />
We are told this training is very cutting-edge, experimental, intuitive, effective.<br />
<br />
This morning after a break, my table's discussion turned to note-taking and typing, the latency of abandoning college habits. Someone mentioned finding herself unable to take notes by hand during classes. I contributed that my baby sister is allowed to use laptops during her high-school classes, that her teacher gathered email addresses from each student on the first day of school and created a website for literary discussions, that she is allowed to email her teacher until midnight with any questions about homework.<br />
<br />
I remember being in tenth grade and having my CD player confiscated during biology. I think that might have been around the same time I heard a pop-music ringtone for the first time.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
One of the sushi samples dropped from my pinching chopsticks into my square soy sauce bowl. Sushi chefs, we were told, cringe when people dunk their rolls into soy sauce because it overwhelms any other flavor. It's true.<br />
<br />
We were also told that <i>sushi</i> refers to the rice, not the fish. So you can prepare sushi rice and eat it with beef or chicken and it would still be a sushi dish. Sticky rice is not sushi rice. Wasabi is almost always made from paste before it is made into a condiment, because fresh wasabi is extremely potent and pricey.<br />
<br />
I'm proud to say that I learned a lot and tried everything (except the sliced ginger). I have a lot of studying to do.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Last night, I had this idea for a short story:<br />
<br />
A young man moves back to the Midwestern suburban home of his adolescence. There is a neighborhood association that regulates things like weekly lawn trimming and property lines in a democratic fashion. The residents realize--with satisfaction--that no one on the block smokes anymore. One night, the young man has a cigarette and flicks the butt onto the sidewalk, where it is discovered the next day.<br />
<br />
A <a href="http://faculty.arts.ubc.ca/pmahon/Girard.html">Girardian sacrificial crisis</a> results.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
There are training sessions during the day and in the evenings. Yesterday, I went in the evening. A completely different vibe. Fewer coffee mugs. Only half of the trainees smoke. More arms tucked over the backs of chairs, more wisecracks, more Yes's than nods.<br />
<br />
This morning, I downed three cups of coffee by the end of the first hour.<br />
<br />
Three more days of food tasting, followed by some mock service sessions (I think of them as improv rehearsals) and then a simulated business day with invited guests. We are warned constantly about Secret Shoppers. More people arrive every day and they have stopped introducing themselves. The kitchen clanks and wafts, the construction sectors grind and sputter and ratchet, the lighting fixtures get fancier and fancier.<br />
<br />
Faces are getting familiar. The restaurant is opening soon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-14547182155449903262010-09-23T13:35:00.003-04:002010-09-23T13:51:48.313-04:00Bread<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOp1pCawTmuhld4glAkw837WGqvyxZPbfRrfLCZfCxgzG6v7Z8yevDwFKzCdeAWUmpFhKjnwq3CNQ14ssbxUuKENhHL6XLOI9ZV20zPhCCIytcuiLVVX7CC_CwZLxzOcHCx8qxpRkQjQ/s1600/IMG_3738.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOp1pCawTmuhld4glAkw837WGqvyxZPbfRrfLCZfCxgzG6v7Z8yevDwFKzCdeAWUmpFhKjnwq3CNQ14ssbxUuKENhHL6XLOI9ZV20zPhCCIytcuiLVVX7CC_CwZLxzOcHCx8qxpRkQjQ/s200/IMG_3738.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520165530876929282" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">"</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">INTERVIEWER</span></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 21px; text-align: left; text-indent: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Mr. Wilder, why do you write?</span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 21px; text-align: center; text-indent: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">WILDER</span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 21px; text-align: left; text-indent: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I think I write in order to discover on my shelf a new book that I would enjoy reading, or to see a new play that would engross me.</span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 21px; text-align: center; text-indent: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">INTERVIEWER</span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 21px; text-align: left; text-indent: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Do your books and plays fulfill this expectation?</span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 21px; text-align: center; text-indent: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">WILDER</span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 21px; text-align: left; text-indent: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">No."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">-- from an interview with Thornton Wilder, "</span><a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/4887/the-art-of-fiction-no-16-thornton-wilder"><span class="Apple-style-span">The Art of Fiction No. 16</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span">," </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">The Paris Review</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">--</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Been a while, blog, been a while. I intended to document my roadtrip from Cincinnati to Omaha, on a daily or even semi-daily basis, and even made a thing of telling friends and family to check the </span><a href="http://chrischross.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span">travel blog</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span"> regularly for updates. I ended up only posting once or twice during the first half of the trip. I guess I gave it up once I realized that after driving through the night, meeting and remeeting dozens of people, walking a city or two, drinking, laughing, eating burger after burger, remarking and observing and perceiving--that after all that, the last thing one wants to do is sit down at a computer and type. Much less when you're borrowing internet from the friend waiting to take you somewhere. Better to check Facebook and email and give the laptop a rest. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">So now, here I am, and here we are. It is raining: strange raindrops falling in crosshatch because of confused wind. They seem to tickle the trees, which squirm and jerk. My Panera lunch (I've budgeted one meal out per week) is finished. Nearby, a group of seniors sip soup, and to my immediate right, a trio of business lunchers stab at Romaine cuts. When the third luncher arrived, she showed her shoes in a kind of shuffle, saying, "This one's a seven, this one's a six," which got a laugh of familiarity </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">(Oh, Karen, you never change).</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> Earlier today, in a Wal-Mart parking lot, I saw a woman who looked exactly like Kathy Bates driving a big red pickup.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I am back in Nebraska.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">--</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">With things to show for it, I am proud to say. After sending dozens of job inquiry emails, creating and recreating ten versions of my work resume (Office-Admin, Publishing, Coordinator, Childcare, etc.), dressing up for five interviews and making it to four auditions--all within a fortnight--I arrive at today, a bleary Thursday, all set with a job and a show.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">The Job. </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span">Tonight, I start training at a new restaurant opening in Omaha next month. I have signed a release in which I promise not to mention the company name in any website or blog, but I will say that the prospective clientèle are affluent travelers in the city on business (TIP$). It's not catering, thank God, but it is food. I interviewed this morning with a law firm for a position as a legal assistant, too, and will hear back sometime next week. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">The Show.</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span"> I'm cast as Slightly Soiled in </span><a href="http://www.rosetheater.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span">The Rose</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span">'s </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Peter Pan,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> which opens this fall. This is great news because The Rose is a professional children's theatre, meaning I will be paid. Also, their scope provides opportunities for growth. In other words, I can continue being a professional actor while staying close to home. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">(At</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> home for the moment, but more on that later.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I met with my high-school drama teacher a few days ago. She owns the local dance academy and has asked me to help teach some musical theatre classes, perhaps to grow a separate program out of it. There's the 2011 summer camp, too, and we're thinking about possibly collaborating on writing a new adaptation of a popular kid's book. I'm just glad for honest and creative work.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">--</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Other achievements from the past week and a half include helping my baby sister to beat the Super Mario Bros. Wii game, taking my grandma out for a spin in my classy gold Dodge Neon, running around with Ajax, and attending two Antiochian Orthodox services (so far). I plan to attend a Greek one this Sunday, but </span><a href="http://www.stmaryschurch.com/website"><span class="Apple-style-span">the one I went to last week</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span"> is very beautiful, very swanky.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Readingwise, I have run into a bit of a snag, but it may help me resist what a friend has diagnosed as "book polygamy." I still have </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">The Brothers K</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">White Noise</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> to finish, and at the base library I picked up </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Lolita</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Let the Great World Spin.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> But when I went to the </span><a href="http://www.bellevuelibrary.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span">local library</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span"> to get a card, I was informed that our house is in a "no man's land as far as libraries go," and as a result I was considered a nonlocal. See, Nebraska has a library system based on townships, not counties, meaning that your house has to be located within city limits in order for your membership to be free. However, the zoning is based on county. The long and short is that while the post office believes we live in Bellevue, the library does not.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">So I'm without free library privileges for a while. Quite a switch from Cincinnati, where at one point I had cards for libraries in four counties.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">--</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Other switches from Cincy: </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">There are fewer Starbuckses here. I chauffeur my baby sister after school. Uniformed folks are everywhere, as are men in button-up shirts without ties and short-haired women in pantsuits. Nights are quieter. Gas is a quarter cheaper, but there's corn in it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">--</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">This weekend is my sister's Homecoming. She's going. Nebraska plays on Saturday, and after job training an old friend and I are going to hang out. He owns two gas stations, I think. He wants to move to LA and get into movies. Someday soon some former teachers and I are going to have lunch and catch up. I am going to spend that time getting used to calling them by their first names. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It's good to be home.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-81323775298878438452010-08-30T09:59:00.000-04:002010-08-30T09:59:34.351-04:00Drive<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"There's never gonna be a moment of truth for you</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While the world is watching."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-- Ben Folds, "Learn to Live with What You Are"</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It struck me that maybe my favorite part of working here has been the morning drive. Fifteen minutes, always northward, never a need to speed. And I've never written about it. So:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is a Ben Folds morning. Start up and the world moves to "Rent a Cop," the pound of piano in a go-get-'em, push-onward rhythm. My window is down as I navigate my neighborhood, and the bass is intense. When I stop at a corner, a trio of sullen teens glare in the direction of my blare. I set off. The sun seems big, extended streaks of shine on the hood and in the mirror's view of the trunk.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Halfway done with the highway and a state cop SUV pulls up alongside like a protector and a menace. The car is magical, magnetic, magnanimous--it slows all traffic around it. Like a heroic film cliche, the statie pulls out ahead and leaves us in his wake, so much exhaust. It passes a ratty van and in the gust a piece of duct tape peels and flings from the van's body, spinning laterally in the air like a lawn ornament in limbo, standing and twisting in space. It does not hit my windshield. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I stop for tea at a gas station. I have never been there before. An ethnic man, burly in a blue checkered shirt, stands behind the counter, eying customers. I zero in on the Arizona fridge. A black youth slides through the aisles with stealth. The cashier accuses him of trying to steal some Jolly Ranchers. They argue. The cashier gives up and says, "Seventy-five cents." The youth slaps a dollar bill on the counter. "Keep the change," the kid says, and swaggers out. An elderly black lady is buying cigarettes next. She asks what that was about. The cashier says, "I saw him." He comes around the counter and points at a shelf of candies. "This stack was like this," he shows with his hand, "and then he was there and it's like this now. I saw him. I saw him." He repeats it to himself as he rings up the woman's cigs. "I saw him. I saw him." When it's my turn, he notices my tie and says, "Good morning, sir." I say, "Hey." He says, "I saw him." I say, "Okay."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Back in the car, skirting a construction crew within a block of work, a car comes at me in my lane. It slows to a confused halt, the driver realizing that this is a one-way street that is blocked off behind me, ahead of him. He creeps his car backwards like a small mammal, shifts, and makes a turn.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I get to work. I write about the drive.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-42967005413278628562010-08-24T18:33:00.000-04:002010-08-24T18:33:23.552-04:00Bursting"Make no mistake. I take these children seriously. It is not possible to see too much in them, to overindulge your casual gift for the study of character. It is all there, in full force, charged waves of identity and being. There are no amateurs in the world of children."<br />
<br />
-- Don DeLillo, <i>White Noise</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
--<br />
<br />
<i>The Nerd</i> ended, as all shows do. It was fun, as all shows are.<br />
<br />
I am glad it is over, as I always am.<br />
<br />
In attendance were three co-workers, four college friends, and six former students of mine. They aren't the sort of statistics one ought to read much into (nor are <a href="http://www.citybeat.com/cincinnati/article-21408-the-nerd-(review).html">reviews</a>), but it's interesting. And something worth remembering, I guess. Students see shows. So do friends.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
One student dropped by today with her family to present me with a gift. A beautiful little card, a gift card to a hip food place nearby, and a baggie of chocolate-covered espresso beans.<br />
<br />
The mother mentioned that she figured I'd be cleaning out my refrigerator about this time, seeing as how I'm a week away from moving and all. And the thought crossed my mind that I really ought to be cleaning a lot of things right now. Instead, here I am, the last one to leave the office again, listening to The Decemberists and wrapping things up.<br />
<br />
I've already eaten four beans. My chest is bursting; my eyelids have forgotten how to fall.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
In preparation for the road, I've been increasing my listening options exponentially. A lot of Death Cab for Cutie albums, a lot of showtunes, a lot of spoken word. Maybe I'll make good use of the radio this time, too.<br />
<br />
For nights and stir-crazy hours, I'm planning to take a pair of Netflix DVDs along: parts one and two of <i>The Corner.</i> I'll watch what I can, when I can, maybe in the corners of Paneras and parking lots.<br />
<br />
And Lord knows, I'm traveling with plenty of books.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
I just need to get rid of furniture, and I'm set. I told my sister last night that all I really feel like keeping are books, movies and clothes.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
So: I'd better get to it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-57411066599375311312010-08-20T09:56:00.005-04:002010-08-20T10:22:55.460-04:00Apologetics<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwuNmhJ0V3hRFdH56b_g8h0LGlJiLWPhyaGfC477hALgPgM8PYK77K_eVNG7sdVHc6sHZRBLd51H9zsGxd8J5ky4kZ1Q3rQGnlGAgkb5iY1SbWcip-x1H8lNQXdmTo8zBrtMCRv6VEUcw/s1600/michael.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwuNmhJ0V3hRFdH56b_g8h0LGlJiLWPhyaGfC477hALgPgM8PYK77K_eVNG7sdVHc6sHZRBLd51H9zsGxd8J5ky4kZ1Q3rQGnlGAgkb5iY1SbWcip-x1H8lNQXdmTo8zBrtMCRv6VEUcw/s200/michael.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507493987619798706" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"We are interested in doing good children's theatre, and in providing a valid learning experience. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Therefore, we prefer children who want to learn about the discipline and skills of the art of performing first, and who want to have fun second."</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">-- mission statement of the <a href="http://www.firelands.bgsu.edu/arts/ccct/index.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:black;">Caryl Crane Children's Theatre</span></a></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">--</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mission statements are generally not worth the ink with which they're printed. They are full of words and commas, lists of usually three slightly dissimilar abstractions pertaining to the industry. It's true especially of arts organizations, where the mission statement is debated at length as if it were equal in importance to a Constitutional amendment. Words are dissected, spliced, compounded, and ultimately rejected. I've only ever been a part of two such sessions, and I never want to be a part of one again. It's like writing an English paper with a dozen suddenly disagreeable people. And at the end of all the arguments, you're left with an almost perfectly meaningless jumble of nice-sounding phrases that no one really likes. And this is the banner you have chosen for your group. You put it on flyers, brochures, posters, websites, ads, merchandise...this is what patrons will read right after they see your company's name on a piece of paper and right before they decide whether you're worth spending money.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The longer the mission statement, frankly, the easier it is to ignore. It's like a tax code no one will enforce.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All that said, the mission statement from the Caryl Crane Children's Theatre in Huron, OH (the town where I spent two summers at the <a href="http://www.bgsu.edu/departments/theatrefilm/huron_playhouse/index.html">Huron Playhouse</a>), is solid. Why? Two reasons:</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">1.) <b>It's short.</b> We live in a quick-paced society, and the faster you can spit out your mission, the better. The fewer words that appear as a blob of text on an otherwise stunning layout, the better.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">2.) <b>It's honest.</b> They clearly know what they want from their students. They communicate that clearly, too, with a directness most arts organizations lack. The diction is simple. They don't say, "quality entertainment that enriches students academically, socially and emotionally;" instead, they say, "a valid learning experience." This implies, too, that other groups may not be able to offer a <i>valid</i> learning experience, just the outward signs of one. And not only does the second sentence pose a sort of challenge to prospective students, but it also tells you the priorities by which the program operates. Notice the sentence structure: "...we prefer children who want..." It's the language of <i>Help me help you,</i> give and take.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I guess I should also add that their tone is unapologetic. Too often, in matters of business and marketing, the arts appear to be apologizing for themselves, for their very presence, as if they are severely out of place. It's true that the artistic community has reason to apologize if they are not serving the greater good, or if what they produce is not enlightening or intriguing, or if they are asking for money that ought to be given to more practical, helpful groups. But something like a children's theatre is always going to fulfill those criteria--they serve the community, the kids are enlightened and intrigued constantly, and they usually subsist on donations, cheap tuition, and low ticket prices (if any). There is no reason to apologize. At the Caryl Crane, they don't.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">--</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Been thinking more about this kind of thing lately. Subjects pertaining to how the arts are perceived and how they present themselves. I'm thinking about pursuing a graduate degree (<a href="http://www.artsadministration.org/grad">Masters of Arts Administration</a>) with the ultimate goal of starting my own theatre company. Like Eminem at the end of <i>Eight Mile,</i> I think I just need to do my own thing.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll spend the next months preparing for the GMAT and revising applications. The University of Cincinnati has a dual-degree program, as does the closer-to-home University of Wisconsin-Madison, which results in an MBA and MAA. That's what I'm interested in if I am to go back to school. "In this economy," and all that.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I thought briefly about some MFA programs, but from what I've seen, it all still comes down to whether you're any good at the thing you studied. You have an MFA in Playwriting, great, but has anyone outside of obligation ever produced your plays? You got your MFA in Acting, sure, but you still had to audition to get your last job, right? I'm not trying to discount anyone's degree or life choice. I'm just saying that for me, given my current ambition, an MFA would not really help. </span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Is that too apologetic?</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-39642253859753743052010-08-12T17:02:00.002-04:002010-08-12T17:08:22.902-04:00Casts"at least someone came to see us"<br /><br />-- caption under the latest <a href="http://www.facebook.com/christopherjstewart#!/photo.php?pid=13763029&op=1&o=global&view=global&subj=71500601&id=777940595">photo</a> of me tagged on Facebook<br /><br />--<br /><br />I'm glad to be "at least someone."<br /><br />Context: some of the kids at The Children's Theatre STAR program performed at a Pops concert at the end of July. The composer was the music director at our camp, and he wanted to give some selected students a chance to show off, get us some publicity, etc. The concert was on a Friday night, after the final day of classes. We had rescheduled one of our performances so that this small group could do the Pops gig.<br /><br />During that day, it became more and more apparent that no one was planning to attend the concert. Our best singers were performing in front of thousands of people, and maybe none of their teachers would be there.<div><br /></div><div>It seemed wrong.<br /><br />Two of us ended up going, me and one of the dance teachers. I can't blame anyone for not going--people are busy, and really, how many things are going on on a given Friday night?--but I can say that the kids were ecstatic to see us. We got hugs. And, apparently, someone took a picture of us snapping along with what I can only assume was a doo-wop song. And you can kind of tell from the picture, but it was a gorgeous night.<br /><br />I should also mention that a lot of these kids' classmates came, too.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Best show of <i>The Nerd</i> was last night. So far. By far.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Rumors notwithstanding, we have cast all four shows for the 2010-11 season. People will find out within a week from today.<br /><br />I've noticed that some of the rookie teens who were called back must have misunderstood our notification policy. I received a call today from a girl who sounded frantic about not getting a call yet. I told her it was next week. Then I saw another teen who had updated a status bemoaning failure. Don't fret yet, kids. We need a week to make all the arrangements before we can mail out contracts.<br /><br />I've also noticed that even though I'm within 20 days of moving and leaving this company, I'm still saying "we."<br /><br />--<br /><br />Study guides comprise the main part of my workload these days. Years ago, when I worked for the publishing company in Hillsdale, I spent the last few weeks of employment doing the same thing I'm doing now: namely, scanning through the educational benchmark standards of various states. At the publishing company, it was only Michigan's. But here, I'm looking at Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky.<br /><br />(I thought about putting in links to those websites, but who the hell's gonna read that stuff?)<br /><br />I know states have to have educational standards. But these tomes of regulations are so dense, so poorly and ambiguously worded, that I believe I'm losing brain power by reading through them. Not that I think they should be glitzed up and filled with colorful diction. Just...I don't know. Maybe they should just not have so many standards about so many things.<br /><br />Here's a sample, taken from Kentucky's reading requirements for 4th grade:<br /><br /><blockquote>Student demonstrates extensive</blockquote><blockquote>understanding of literary, informational,</blockquote><blockquote>persuasive, and practical/ workplace</blockquote><blockquote>texts.</blockquote><blockquote>Demonstrates an extensive</blockquote><blockquote>understanding of literary elements (e.g.,</blockquote><blockquote>setting, characters, plot, and</blockquote><blockquote>problem/solution) when reading literary</blockquote><blockquote>text</blockquote><blockquote>Demonstrates an extensive</blockquote><blockquote>understanding of text features (e.g., lists,</blockquote><blockquote>tables, graphs, etc.) when reading</blockquote><blockquote>informational text</blockquote><blockquote>Demonstrates an extensive</blockquote><blockquote>understanding of fact and the author’s</blockquote><blockquote>opinion when reading persuasive text</blockquote><blockquote>Demonstrates an extensive</blockquote><blockquote>understanding of text (e.g., locating and</blockquote><blockquote>applying information for authentic</blockquote><blockquote>purposes, interpreting specialized</blockquote><blockquote>vocabulary, and following directions)</blockquote><blockquote>when reading practical/workplace text</blockquote><br />--<br /><br />I wish I didn't have to read this stuff in order to create an effective, marketable, relevant study guide. But I do.<br /><br />--<br /><br />On the upside, I got a call about a job in Omaha. We'll see about it in a few weeks, I guess, but it would be a great part-time gig if I can land it. House management for a solid venue. Could be just the thing.<br /><br />I've also been nibbling at acting and directing work in the area. For now, I'm only going for gigs that pay. Gotta have my own standards.<br /><br />Shortly after signing on to play Peter Pan in the spring, I found out that the main children's theatre in Omaha is doing <i>Peter Pan - The Musical!</i> this fall and winter. Auditions are days after I get back home. You bet I'm gonna be all over that audition. I won't play Pan, but I also don't have to. And that is a very cool thing <i>not</i> to have to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>--</div><div><br /></div><div>And, oh yeah. I bought a harmonica last week.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can play three songs.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can fake many, many more.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-72024081059844633452010-08-11T17:28:00.000-04:002010-08-11T17:28:51.586-04:00Rags<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.impawards.com/1974/posters/little_prince.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.impawards.com/1974/posters/little_prince.jpg" width="131" /></a></div>"They are in a great hurry," said the little prince. "What are they looking for?"<br />
<br />
"Not even the locomotive engineer knows that," said the switchman.<br />
<br />
And a second brilliantly lighted express thundered by, in the opposite direction.<br />
<br />
"Are they coming back already?" demanded the little prince.<br />
<br />
"These are not the same ones," said the switchman. "It is an exchange."<br />
<br />
"Were they not satisfied where they were?" asked the little prince.<br />
<br />
"No one is ever satisfied where he is," said the switchman.<br />
<br />
And they heard the roaring thunder of a third brilliantly lighted express.<br />
<br />
"Are they pursuing the first travelers?" demanded the little prince.<br />
<br />
"They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes."<br />
<br />
"Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry..."<br />
<br />
"They are lucky," the switchman said.<br />
<br />
-- <i>The Little Prince,</i> by Antoine de Saint Exupery<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
As I've been making my way through this brilliant book, I've been wondering if anyone else thought to adapt it for the stage. Of course, someone else has. Of course, a group of those someones made it a musical. Of course, it's also a film.<br />
<br />
A famous film. Who knew. If your best thoughts aren't stolen by the ancients, then at least they are stolen by pioneers of the entertainment industry.<br />
<br />
Still: it would make a wonderful children's play. If you could just get some widely focused spotlights on the stage, you could do the different planets very nicely.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
The children's play that I am actually working on, <i>Wait! I Want to Tell You a Story,</i> continues to go well. I returned to the daycare today. I had each kid read two different characters. About half of them can read, and half of the ones who can do so haltingly, with an unnerving staccato like someone laying heavy bricks and wearing clicky shoes,--so there's that obstacle. But at least a few of them can at least read well, and to them I've given the choice roles, the ones with changing intentions, more lines.<br />
<br />
Between readings, a skeptical child asked at my elbow: "Have you ever directed anything before?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," I said. "I've written some plays, too."<br />
<br />
He didn't seem impressed. "Huh."<br />
<br />
Kid'll be on some theatre board someday.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
We've plowed through auditions at The Children's Theatre. Callbacks end tonight, which is devoted entirely to <i>Disney's The Jungle Book Kids.</i><br />
<br />
It's a subdued spectacle. Kids show up with their parents and the downstairs heats up, they check in at my table and ask funny questions and the parents wince or chuckle and tow their offspring toward a chair. They put on expensive shoes with the seriousness and familiarity of monks at prayer. They go into the room sweating and emerge smiling or on the verge of tears. They know what they have done. The parents know, they know the body language of talented children, and even if it is not their child sobbing in the corner, their eyebrows dip and their mouths open with sadness. This is completely different from adult auditions. Adult actors have learned to trap all responses inside their chosen outfits, behind trim binders full of material, under heads of immaculate hair. Adults know not to ask questions <i>lest,</i> and they watch these emotive children fall from professionalism with all the grace of tipping file cabinets. Adults hang themselves on the walls, impassive portraits waiting their turn to be seen, appraised, and passed by. Adults understand economy of scale and opportunity cost--they scrutinize constantly: <i>If I don't get this, I can go home early, at least. My November will be free and I can visit my cousin. I can audition at another place next week. I don't know or care where my next job comes from--I just want to get there.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
But for the kids, this is it. Here, now. Their hopes are raised, and they will be dashed before evening's end, and they are the only ones who know it, because they are the only ones who want it badly enough.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
If you told an adult, after a poor audition, that they had to buy new expensive shoes and work tirelessly for hours on perfecting their performance, they would nod, drive home, and try to forget about ever wanting to work for you.<br />
<br />
If you tell that to a kid, they will nod, ride home, and do exactly what you say. (If they want it badly enough, that is.) They just might blow you away the next day, because adults have also trained themselves to stop expecting great things from children.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-26861804070997213942010-08-06T15:20:00.004-04:002010-08-06T15:28:12.946-04:00Valiant<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcg8_-uYaejIyahreGZEj8cb_1K0GHsoYij6qtrHw-lI_Okr9tfHWZKK30Vf8bv8jeCAhHAimntmp_hg_ow7WgdtqVmXMlAnuVtaFQMHnC3QRq14xqUuDjFn4tbGVx0UuAt-_Yh4HJNw/s1600/eddie+valiant.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcg8_-uYaejIyahreGZEj8cb_1K0GHsoYij6qtrHw-lI_Okr9tfHWZKK30Vf8bv8jeCAhHAimntmp_hg_ow7WgdtqVmXMlAnuVtaFQMHnC3QRq14xqUuDjFn4tbGVx0UuAt-_Yh4HJNw/s200/eddie+valiant.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502380846228345138" /></a><br />"The most valiant thing you can do as an artist is inspire someone else to be creative."<br /><br />-- Joseph Gordon-Levitt, in <i><a href="http://jake-weird.blogspot.com/2010/07/joseph-gordon-levitt-details-interview.html">Details</a></i> magazine, July 13, 2010<br /><br />--<br /><br />Yes.<br /><br />And whether that someone else is a kid in an acting class, a chuckling grandma in the first row, or a free-thinking, educated adult capable of making deliberate positive changes in his/her life, it is still valiant. I'm proud to be among the ranks of inspirers.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Also: I made the <i><a href="http://news.cincinnati.com/article/20100806/ENT12/8060305/Stewart-makes-Showboat-debut-in-The-Nerd-">Enquirer</a>. </i>The article is flattering, full of etymology. If you're in the Cincinnati area, come see <i>The Nerd,</i> my last show here...<br /><br />...my last show, that is, until next spring. When the world premiere of <i>Disney's Peter Pan Jr.</i> hits the Taft Theatre stage in April, yours truly will originate the title role.<br /><br />That's right. I'm playing Peter Pan.<br /><br />When they first offered me the role, I respectfully declined. But months later, the offer has been renewed, and I simply cannot turn it down. It's work--good work at that, well-paying work--and it's a world premiere; Disney has never before allowed any theatre to stage a version of their 1953 movie. They workshopped it for months. They revised the script multiple times. It's unclear how involved they will be in the rehearsal process, but there's a good chance they will see the show. And if they like what they see...hey.<br /><br />Plus, I'll actually be able to put "flight" on my resume.<br /><br />--<br /><br />I was sitting at my desk, about to make a phone call to a parent who wants to schedule a last-minute audition tomorrow for her son. I looked down at the Post-It where I'd scribbled her number, and the last digit, a 4, looked odd. I touched it and a bent fleck of eraser stuck to my finger. It was a 1.<br /><br />--<br /><br />The time has come for me to start wrapping things up at work. With my boss going on maternity leave, I have absorbed a healthy load of paperwork, mostly preparation for the upcoming school tour. Van oil changes, study guide designs, stuff like that.<br /><br />Possibly my most valiant task is to leave a record of my WorkShops here. Each teaching artist for TCTC can do any of the WorkShops and adapt it to their own style, and I have done just that with about half of the offerings in our repertoire. My approach hasn't always worked--sometimes it fails outright--but anyway, there is some knowledge to be passed on.<br /><br />For instance, this week I started a "From the Page to the Stage" residency at a daycare half an hour away. (This is the place where a kid called me Jackie Chan.) Apparently, this WorkShop has never been booked before, so it's crucial that I chronicle how it goes. So far, we've only introduced ourselves and chosen a book (page) which we will adapt into a play (stage). There's a final performance in two weeks, in the late afternoon just as parents are about to pick up their kids. Next week we'll cast and block, and in the third week we'll rehearse.<br /><br />The book? <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wait-Want-Tell-You-Story/dp/068987166X">Wait! I Want to Tell You a Story</a>,</i> by Tom Williams. I just finished the adaptation today.<br /><br />The choosing of the book was interesting. I went to the library's children section to browse, and a librarian asked to help. I told her what I wanted: a short picture book with a large cast of characters that would appeal to a wide age range. The librarian told her fellows, and soon there was a squad of six or more librarians scanning through the aisles of skinny spines. They plopped thin, jacketed hardcovers in a pile and kept searching. At the daycare, I showed covers and held a vote, and then read the most popular ones, which were voted on again. There was Lincoln-Douglas-style debate which allowed the kids to make arguments for or against certain picks. Then we had the final vote. They picked the story in which a muskrat, about to be eaten by a tiger, belays his demise by telling a story...in which a frog is about to be eaten by a shark but belays it by telling a story...and so on.<br /><br />I had hoped they would pick <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Edwina-Dinosaur-Didnt-Know-Extinct/dp/0786837489/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1281121424&sr=1-1">Edwina, the Dinosaur Who Didn't Know She Was Extinct</a>,</i> but for a purely selfish reason: I want to adapt it into a play anyway.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Here's to valiance.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-31954371485021302652010-08-04T17:56:00.000-04:002010-08-04T17:56:52.575-04:00Apostrophe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.free-extras.com/pics/a/angry_squirrel-485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://images.free-extras.com/pics/a/angry_squirrel-485.jpg" width="188" /></a></div>"And just so you don't think this is a one-time occurrence, here's a brief list of some reasons why I kinda suck:<br />
<br />
I wrecked my mother's car<br />
I lost my cousin in a mall<br />
I killed a fish and a plant and a squirrel<br />
I lost my father's autographed Mickey Mantle ball<br />
And rode my bike into a nine-year-old girl--<br />
But she was okay<br />
And I keep telling myself,<br />
<br />
Oh, life goes on<br />
Things will be okay.<br />
Though the car and fish and ball and plant and squirrel are gone<br />
Tomorrow's a brand-new day."<br />
<br />
-- "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cL4BgOf2LDE">Along the Way</a>" from <a href="http://www.pasekandpaul.com/">Pasek & Paul</a>'s new musical <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edges_(musical)">Edges</a></i><br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
I've been living off of others for the last month. It's getting worse. Today, I ate nothing but what co-workers had brought to the office for "everyone" to eat. I suspect I'm the only one who's been sneaking cupcakes and pizza slices this week.<br />
<br />
Someone thrust a can of sparkling water in my hand. I thought it was regular soda until I took a sip and there was no sweetness in it.<br />
<br />
My boss insisted I eat a chicken tenderloin prepared by his wife, who is also my boss. "No thanks," I said. "I have four," he said. I ate the chicken with my fingers.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Blogger tells me I haven't updated in almost a month. It's been busy: teaching, rehearsing, movie watching. And I had been anticipating today as the busiest day of all--first day of auditions for The Children's Theatre, opening night for <i><a href="http://www.cincinnatilandmarkproductions.com/sbm/News.aspx">The Nerd</a>--</i>but out of nowhere, I have nothing really to do. For a solid hour. I've eaten. I've put up signs. I've updated lists, answered emails, even helped clean the rehearsal room. The silence is dubious: some undone task is lurking, somewhere.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
The summer acting class, my main reason for staying in this area through August, was a little disappointing. Having missed the first week, I was lost for a while. I didn't know what the kids had been told and taught. And anyway, the structure was so different this year that I didn't get the chance to correct the mistakes I made last year.<br />
<br />
Still, it was not all bad. The kids were great this year, talented, polite, malleable. We got some scenes worked into the final performance, which did not happen last year. Kids learned to juggle. We played improv games and started to see significant improvement. It was funny and fun. And while the sound of fifty tap shoes is still one of the most hideous noises I have known, I do think the camp was better this year.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
One of the older kids sang a song called "Along the Way" from Pasek & Paul's <i>Edges,</i> which I quoted before. It's a great song, one I had never heard before, and I'm totally stealing it as an audition piece.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
The night before their final Sunday matinee, I had a few drinks and grew very maudlin. I held some thank-you cards and had an <a href="http://www.uky.edu/AS/Classics/rhetoric.html#10">apostrophe</a> (the literary element whereby a character addresses an absent or abstracted audience).<br />
<br />
I imagined telling the kids the next day that I would miss them. I said things like, "it has been an honor and a privilege and a blessing," and I got choked up. So I tried saying things like, "I hope you enjoyed our classes at least half as much as I did," and I chuckled because I sounded like Bilbo Baggins. Or, "you've all worked so hard," which sounded cheap. I looked at the thank-you note again. I said a lot more that night that was basically a jumbled-up version of things that sounded better in my head. It was hard to think about leaving, perhaps never to teach a group of kids like this again.<br />
<br />
I decided it would be best for me not to say a word about it, to the kids at least. It was best.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I taught a workshop at a daycare thirty minutes away. This daycare is awfully run. I was in a room with a half-wall beyond which another class with a loud teacher made all sorts of distracting commotion. It's a residency workshop, too, so I'll have to do six more of these at the same place. We're supposed to put on a play by the end.<br />
<br />
The teacher corralled them to me and I had them sit on the floor. I rose to introduce myself and one of the kids, a little buzz-cut'd punk wearing a camouflage jacket in August, proclaimed, "It's Jackie Chan!"<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Life goes on.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-66753545926642244372010-07-13T17:47:00.001-04:002010-07-13T17:52:37.071-04:00Stopping<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Most stories have a hero who finds</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You make your past your past."</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">-- Joshua Radin, "Brand New Day"</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Once you leave school, yearly calendars revert to what they were before schools imposed vacations on them. There is no "summer" except for the change in temperature and your monthly electric bill. I'm starting to learn that. I think that's one of the reasons so many people get depressed in the years after they leave college. That, and getting older and working and not drinking as much and stuff. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Another result of no longer living in a "school year" is that there are beginnings and endings randomly placed throughout the months. For example, it's mid-July and one friend of mine just started a new job, and in two days another friend leaves his job, and in seven weeks, I'm leaving my current job. And we're all moving at different times, too. When I go to restaurants and see teenagers working their "summer job," I have to remember what that was like. To work at a place knowing it was temporary, knowing your identity didn't necessarily have to be tied to this organization in any way, knowing that there were things in the system that you'd do differently but that there wasn't enough time to bother.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Granted, not all teens leave their summer jobs in the fall, but most do. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's different now, and I don't need to say why. Knowing that if you wanted to, you could slip into complacency. You could be like the person upstairs at the corner office, working in middle-management because they were ambitious when they got here but not enough to jump ladders for a better position somewhere else, or maybe they married a local, or maybe "the right time never came."</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I guess that's all some people want in life, but I never want people to say or think that of me. I think that's what people originally meant by saying that someone was "going places." </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I was in Omaha last week, my sister and I talked about what it was like to come back after being away for so long. My sister said she feels vindicated every time she runs into an old classmate whose life has fallen to shambles in the last two years--not that she relishes their misfortune, but that she just knows in those moments that she made good decisions. It makes her feel better about being in the Navy, a state of being which gives her a lot of grief.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'll be honest--I feel good, too. It makes me feel better about moving back home, because it's my choice to do so. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I think a lot of people know they live in a free country but don't live free lives. They don't go places. They don't save their money so they can do good things or have good times. They either see their families too much or too little. They don't know the good places to eat in their own town, and they don't read books or go on walks. They don't escape sadness. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now that I'm back, I'm back in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Nerd</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> rehearsals, which have been going for a few weeks now. We blocked some of my character's big scenes last night, and it was the first chance I've gotten to play with the other cast members. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can definitely tell they've spent some time gelling while I was gone. It's hard to put anything into Jell-O once it's set, and I spent most of my breaks reading quietly just because I don't want to be the guy who thinks he knows what everyone's talking about. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm not shut out, though. Theatre people are naturally warm, welcoming folks. They smile a lot and tend to reference movies that we all have seen.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's a mix of feeling incredibly young (most everyone else has "retired" from acting at least once) and inexperienced. Like I'm relearning how to act. Which might be a good thing. I imagine the ability to reboot each time a rehearsal process begins is useful. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But as I told a friend today, even though </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Nerd</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> is no masterpiece, it's still nice to work on a play of substance. On material instead of bits, on action instead of mere business, on lines that don't come from the back-issues of my childhood. It's been two years since I've had the sense that I was "creating a role," instead of trying to fit myself into the cookie cutter. It's nice.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Contrast that to this morning: I entered the summer camp also </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">in medias res,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> trying to figure out where, in the midst of juggling and scenes and an ever-changing schedule, I fit in this year. What do I teach? Who do I work with? What do we work on? When?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's mildly controlled chaos. I don't want to badmouth anyone in my organization. But everyone's a bit clueless about what is supposed to be going on. Or maybe they just suppose what is going on. I also don't want to complain too much about being back at work, because who doesn't want to complain when you've been on vacation for two weeks?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Long and short: I'm not convinced that there's any real point in me being there for five hours of my day.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I think it has a lot to do with what I mentioned before, that I'm leaving in seven weeks at the end of August. That's too short a time for any long-term projects of real merit, but it's also too long to have anything culminate during the camp. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is exactly why I didn't want to give anyone my notice back in April. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm leaving soon. This simple fact underlies everything I do for the next seven weeks. I keep preparing myself for a climax, only to find that I've somehow ended up in the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>dénouement</i>.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's raining today. I drove to the office in the afternoon, during the worst of the storm, and when I passed a semi I noticed that the truck slowed down considerably. Of course, it's because big trucks like that need more time to stop, more space to slow their momentum.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The process of stopping is just that--a process. It can't happen instantaneously.</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The problem is, when your foot's on the break, there's not much else you can do.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-29473576028228887012010-07-12T01:13:00.000-04:002010-07-12T01:13:32.041-04:00Perks"My sister said Mary Elizabeth is suffering from low self-esteem, but I told her that she said the same thing about Sam back in November when she started dating Craig, and Sam is completely different. Everything can't be low self-esteem, can it?<br />
<br />
My sister tried to clarify things. She said that by introducing me to all these great things, Mary Elizabeth gained a 'superior position' that she wouldn't need if she was confident about herself. She also said that people who try to control situations all the time are afraid that if they don't, nothing will work out the way they want.<br />
<br />
I don't know if this is right or not, but it made me sad regardless. Not for Mary Elizabeth. Or for me. Just in general. Because I started to think that I don't know who Mary Elizabeth was at all. I'm not saying she was lying to me, but she just acted so different before I got to know her, and if she really isn't like what she was at the beginning, I wish she could have just said so. But maybe she is like she was at the beginning, and I just didn't realize it. I just don't want to be another thing that Mary Elizabeth is in charge of."<br />
<br />
-- Stephen Chbosky, <i>The Perks of Being a Wallflower</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
--<br />
<br />
Sometimes, books smack you in the face.<br />
<br />
I read that passage less than an hour ago, back on the plane. I had a window seat in a very small plane. I think there were only about 30 people on board. On the left side of the aisle there was only one seat in each row, but on the right there were a pair of seats. Next to me sat a very attractive blond girl. She was 16-26 years old. I'm serious. She could have been any of those ages. Usually you can be more specific than that, but her appearance defied such estimation.<br />
<br />
When I read the above passage, we hit major turbulence. This will seem like it's straight out of a romantic novel, but it's not. There's a major storm north of Indianapolis right now, and we flew right through it from Milwaukee. I had to close the book because the vibrating words were making me nauseated. Also because the behavior of Mary Elizabeth (who is dating the main character in the book) reminds me of how I behaved during my last long-term relationship.<br />
<br />
It's shaming.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
The blond girl was reading <i>Eclipse,</i> a book in the <i>Twilight</i> series. She wasn't assigned that seat originally, but she swapped with her friend.<br />
<br />
I always feel awkward when someone sits beside me on an airplane. It's even more awkward for me if the person who was supposed to sit beside me decided not to and I can't figure out why. I don't feel so awkward if the other person is already seated and I come down the aisle and sit down beside them, because I am the visitor, in a way, and I introduce myself and strike up a conversation and sort of go through the obligatory smalltalk airlines have thrust upon modern travelers. But when it's the other way around, when I'm already seated and the person moving down the aisle realizes the number on their ticket matches the number of the seat beside me, I feel like the host, and I sort of wait for the other person to introduce him/herself.<br />
<br />
But. They. Never. Do.<br />
<br />
I don't generally have social anxiety (not the kind that makes me sweat or my heart race) but there are times when I recognize that I am dwelling on something that other people probably think it's weird or creepy to dwell on. This was one of those times.<br />
<br />
They switched, and the blond girl (why did she have to be cute?) sat and acted like there was no one where I was, and she opened her book and started reading. Because I was reading, too, I had two thoughts in rapid succession:<br />
<br />
1.) <i>Hey! We're both reading books!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
2.) <i>Who cares, weirdo? Don't you dare say anything.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
So I didn't. It was probably a good decision, but I had to stop myself from imagining what we might have talked about if she had had the (un)common courtesy to introduce herself and make smalltalk.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'm Brook."<br />
<br />
"Chris."<br />
<br />
"Nice to meet you."<br />
<br />
"You, too."<br />
<br />
"What are you reading?"<br />
<br />
<i>"The Perks of Being a Wallflower.</i> My sister gave it to me."<br />
<br />
"Sounds good. This is my third time reading <i>Eclipse. </i>I'm kind of obsessed."<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"I respect that. You a fan of the movies?"<br />
<br />
Maybe she would be, or maybe she wouldn't be. Or maybe she wouldn't really know. Definitely, she would think that the books were better.<br />
<br />
"Fair enough. You know, I was just there."<br />
<br />
"Where?"<br />
<br />
"Forks, Washington."<br />
<br />
"Really? What were you doing in Milwaukee?"<br />
<br />
I'd give her a brief summary of the last two weeks.<br />
<br />
"Wow. You've been busy."<br />
<br />
"Yup. Well, enjoy your book."<br />
<br />
"You, too."<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
But instead, it was like this:<br />
<br />
Forty-five minutes of silence pass in a 55-minute flight. She sneezes.<br />
<br />
"Bless you," I say.<br />
<br />
She sneezes twice. I stop myself from saying, "Times two," and just give a stupid smile.<br />
<br />
"Thank you," she says.<br />
<br />
We go back to reading our books. I read the part where the main character talks about hating it when the girl he's dating keeps recommending stuff to him and then talking about herself more than him or the stuff she just recommended, and then the main character's sister offers an explanation. Then the plane lurches down and my stomach becomes my throat and then sinks into my butt, and I have to close the book.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Now I'm blogging and self-consciously wondering whether this blog is another form of my recommending complex or this is just the result of a lot of caffeine and not much sleep. I'm sitting in the Indianapolis Airport's baggage claim area on a very comfortable padded bench. A Mexican gentleman approached me a few minutes ago and asked to use my phone. He looked desperate and he had a bunch of folded, printed-off papers in his hands. Numbers are circled and highlighted all over. I made the instant decision to trust a stranger. His side of the conversation makes it sound like he was supposed to have been met by a driver by now.<br />
<br />
I stopped listening to my iPod, which was playing Bob Dylan's "Girl from the North Country," which is a very good song if you have never listened to it. Not my favorite Dylan, but better than anything on <i>Modern Times.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Chbosky's book is also very good, if you have never read it. Up until this point I've been pretty happy every time the main character reads a new book, because I've read all the books he's reading for the first time. I can't articulate exactly why it made me happy each time, but it did.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
I should call a taxi.<br />
<br />
--Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-28629100839408941592010-07-11T21:26:00.002-04:002010-07-11T21:27:02.123-04:00Flight<div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I’m gonna move<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’m gonna go<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’m gonna tell everyone I know<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Looking for a home in the heart of the country.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-- Paul McCartney, “Heart of the Country”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve decided what is my favorite part of flying. It is not the take-off, and it is not the cruise; it is the part between those two, the climb.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Why?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The clouds, mainly. It has to be a cloudy day, partly cloudy, not overcast, and preferably with at least two different kinds of clouds. Different kinds of clouds form on different layers in the atmosphere, which means there is variety. I like when the plane climbs and you’re sitting by a window, and you become equal with the clouds, and then their superiors. But then they subvert you again by becoming a fleet of ships floating to battle in the air. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When you are on the ground, clouds are two-dimensional things that move sideways across your vision. But climbing to their level is like watching a painting become a sculpture. A mural changes with dimension to a diorama.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Writers have characterized the plains as looking like patchwork quilts from the air, but this is not entirely true during the climb. You can see the general squaring of fields because of roads, but even this isn’t through and through, because roads just outside a city like Omaha are slanted and curved all the time. And within the squares of farmland, there are squiggles and mazes that have been carved by farmers who understand how to navigate topography with their tractors. There are levees and shelterbelts of trees, and on days like today (after a raging morning storm) the creeks invade their banks like smudges of a pencil line. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I stare at the wobbly wing of this aircraft and think about the days when I was a boy who wanted to be a fighter pilot. I biked to the base library every Saturday morning to play chess for two hours with the Chess Club, and then I would waste away the afternoon poring over the same dozen books that were filled with all the unclassified information about our nation’s airborne fighting machines. I learned the kind of engines an F-15 Eagle has, and how they are so powerful that this jet is the only one in the world (or at least it was at the time) that could accelerate while flying straight up. And how the F-16, even though it only has one engine, is the only aircraft that can make a turn without losing altitude.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then, I learned a sad bit of information. There was a height requirement for military pilots. I think it was 5-8, making me four inches too short. Tom Cruise, even though he played an F-14 pilot in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Top Gun,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> is also too short, and so is my dad. That’s why when my dad joined the Air Force he didn’t go to school to become a pilot, but instead was trained to operate field radars, which at the time required constant maintenance to be done in very tight spaces. Later he became an instructor at the NCO Academy at Lackland AFB in Texas, where he taught guys older than him how to be good leaders and use proper grammar on their paperwork and stuff like that. Then he became a computer programmer, which turned out to be something that he really loves doing, and which is the thing he still does even though he’s retired. Just goes to show you that dreams can be deceiving.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I feel the vibration in my seat. It is not like a massage but it is still kind of relaxing. On supersonic jets, you’d think that you wouldn’t hear much because you’re going faster than sound, but sound travels much faster through metal and plastic than it does through air, so it’s actually just as loud, maybe even louder. Not that I’ve ever been on a supersonic flight. That’s just one of those things I read in those books.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think about all the loudness and strength and force and absurd commotion it takes to get a single aircraft to fly. All the fuel that burns in the engines, the turbines that blow all this air, all the surface area of the wings, all the sensors and whistles and locks and streamlining. It’s not like a boat, which is effortless. A plane is all effort. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It sure takes a lot for us to do what birds do by instinct with unmatched grace. They also have the luxury of flying together. Humans have to separate for safety. To fly is to be sequestered, compartmentalized, searched and isolated. Birds fly and we marvel. We fly and everything else tries to ignore it. Or the engines swallow a swallow and the plane crashes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That’s something that always bothers me whenever I go to air shows. The noise. There’s something thrilling about being sound-pounded, but as anyone who’s had to sit through an awful band at a concert knows, too much sound is just too much. It’s annoying.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I see a field of electric windmills and I can’t remember if there’s a better name for these devices. But these rows in the Iowan farmscape look to me like white toothpicks stuck in a splotchy, green tablecloth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Most of them aren’t turning, I guess because it’s not that windy of a day. But then I see one windmill whose blades are slowly, steadily rotating. It must be facing the right direction, angled just so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think that’s a lot like genius, talent or godliness: someone facing in just the right direction.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style=" line-height: 115%;font-family:Cambria, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We’re descending. The sculpture will become the painting again.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-37513086875490481642010-07-08T02:38:00.003-04:002010-07-08T02:46:34.531-04:00Emergence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocGAopk2xkL1QSsZ9pN6PIPJHLJBA22CD65ozXmNbhCcaxeBBj6MpuUpSrmeZxhOM0BZ2z46E0gkn3kcqgjk4spNzxnhq0ktZ-pRJ7kjeY2y0m5y3DtEBH7FzTjx1CnGf_AvrMzn8jco/s1600/IMG_3215.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocGAopk2xkL1QSsZ9pN6PIPJHLJBA22CD65ozXmNbhCcaxeBBj6MpuUpSrmeZxhOM0BZ2z46E0gkn3kcqgjk4spNzxnhq0ktZ-pRJ7kjeY2y0m5y3DtEBH7FzTjx1CnGf_AvrMzn8jco/s200/IMG_3215.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491423091007442962" /></a><br />"So, everyone asked me to stand up and read the poem. And I wasn't shy because we were trying to act like grown-ups, and we drank brandy. And I was warm. I'm still a little warm, but I have to tell you this. So, I stood up, and just before I read this poem, I asked everyone if they knew who wrote it to please tell me.<br /><br />When I was done reading the poem, everyone was quiet. A very sad quiet. But the amazing thing was that it wasn't a bad sad at all. It was just something that made everyone look around at each other and know that they were there. Sam and Patrick looked at me. And I looked at them. And I think they knew. Not anything specific really. They just knew. And I think that's all you can ever ask from a friend."<br /><br />-- Stephen Chbosky, <i>The Perks of Being a Wallflower</i><br /><i><br /></i><br />--<br /><br />I was scratching Ajax's belly when I told my dad that when I get my own place in Omaha, I might get a dog of my own. Dad said that could be a good idea, as long as my landlord was okay with it, and I said I knew. Then he said that if they get another dog, it won't be a Bichon Frise like Ajax.<br /><br />"Why not?"<br /><br />"I've never seen a dog this needy. They were bred to be lapdogs, sure, but I have never seen a dog whose sole ambition was to be in a person's lap."<br /><br />It made me think a bit about what makes someone needy (as opposed to affectionate), and that made me think about something I have tried not to think about in a while: my family got a dog two years after I went off to college, and the running joke for a while was that Ajax had "replaced" me. I don't think about it much anymore just because it's silly to take a joke like that seriously, and it's hard not to think about something like that without taking it seriously. But maybe there's something of me in that dog, or vice versa, that is a bit cloying.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Went to my baby sister's soccer game this evening. It took place in an open field not too far from our house, down a hill from a Jimmy John's and Burger King and the Chinese restaurant where I got my first job. The sky was as big as the atmosphere and the sun made twilight behind clouds. It was pleasant.<br /><br />And for the first time, what I suspected would happen, happened. I began to second-guess my decision to stay in Omaha for a while. I began to think about the field and the big sky and feel trapped inside all this space. It's moot.<br /><br />Then I remembered that I was seeing my baby sister's soccer game, which is something I haven't been able to do in a long time, and then I met the boy who wants to date her. Then Nebraska seemed not just all right but good, and I remembered that any place, even a hometown, takes time to get back into. I may have to go a few months without working in a theatre. I should prepare myself for that necessity.<br /><br />--<br /><br />My mom's wedding dress was ruined by a local seamstress, so she took the dress, along with my sister and my lola, five hours into Iowa where her cousin could work on it. (Her cousin is a seamstress herself.) She appraised the garment and said that the damage was too much, they would have to start over. It would take an entire day, maybe more. Welcome, emergency.<br /><br />Long story short: my mom, sister and lola are in Iowa tonight. There are two days until the vow renewal ceremony (essentially, it's the wedding my parents were too poor to afford 25 years ago), and a dress is being stitched overnight. Crisis averted.<br /><br />Isn't it romantic?<br /><br />--<br /><br />My middle sister, the one who went to Iowa for the night, has been suggesting I read <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Perks-Being-Wallflower-Stephen-Chbosky/dp/0671027344/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1278570386&sr=1-1">The Perks of Being a Wallflower</a>,</i> and so far, it's pretty good. (Yet again, I'm unable to resist the call of another book.) It's full of honesty and simplicity. It's been a perfect fit for my mood the last few days: tired, a little listless, retrospective, and--oddly--focused.<br /><br />Lately, I confess, my pursuit of Orthodoxy has slowed. It's no excuse, but life keeps getting in the way. Vacations. Wedding. Family. Driving. How to keep the fast? How to hear the Liturgy?<br /><br />In some flailing attempt to make myself feel better about this, I have downloaded a lot more Orthodox podcasts tonight. I'll listen to them, in lieu of something better, whenever I can.<br /><br />--<br /><br />There was this place we went in Washington, that stretch of gray coastline. Two rocky islands, topped with dense forest, stood about a mile offshore. There was the hint of brown and green amidst the black lines of the cliffs, and white crests exploding all around. Dead trees all around us, smooth rocks lain like walkways in the sand. Cold moisture. No sun anywhere. Some Asian backpackers and our bearded tour guide and us and no one else.<br /><br />The guide told us on the bus that the Indians who live here believe spirits live on those islands, and that is why they hardly ever venture out there. Standing on the beach, feeling chills, contemplating the scrape and shatter of the ridges, there was no question as to how the tribal wise men looked out to the sea and perceived the emergence of earth, and thought it sacred.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Everything is going to be okay.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-17264746430740734532010-07-06T13:45:00.001-04:002010-07-06T13:50:30.521-04:00Reviews<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCSocyKzFo-_AtBvtiADNFjqZtWkIUgXqk_wHSyf8FwTrSudiFvA4eBNLRsp_ARReQj_vYp74yWOOetZT8jbi7pcPnpWA-Hg6GtZ9irPgNWWw_6a0rBOAeKxYwDGKS6dJdU-zMjAbJiPE/s1600/in+twilight+shop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCSocyKzFo-_AtBvtiADNFjqZtWkIUgXqk_wHSyf8FwTrSudiFvA4eBNLRsp_ARReQj_vYp74yWOOetZT8jbi7pcPnpWA-Hg6GtZ9irPgNWWw_6a0rBOAeKxYwDGKS6dJdU-zMjAbJiPE/s320/in+twilight+shop.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;">In a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;">Twilight </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;">book shop, having just finished<br />the first chapter of the third book. Is the<br />disgust clear enough on my face?</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table>"JOHN. They were attentive.<br />ROBERT. Yes. <i>(Pause.)</i> They were acute.<br />JOHN. Mmm.<br />ROBERT. Yes. <i>(Pause.)</i> They were discerning.<br />JOHN. I thought they were.<br />ROBERT. Perhaps they saw the show tonight <i>(pause)</i> on another level. Another, what? another...plane, eh? Another level of meaning. Do you know what I mean?<br />JOHN. I'm not sure I do.<br />ROBERT. A plane of meaning.<br /><i>Pause.</i><br />JOHN. A plane.<br />ROBERT. Yes. I feel perhaps they saw a better show than the one we rehearsed.<br />JOHN. Mmm."<br /><br />-- David Mamet, <i>A life in the theatre: a play</i><br /><i><br /></i><br />--<br /><br />I tend to do this thing, and I'm not entirely proud of it. It feels dishonest to me, or like in doing it I'm preparing to be dishonest later.<br /><br />This thing I do is reading reviews of a book <i>after</i> I've finished it.<br /><br />I try not to read reviews beforehand, relying more on the book's reputation, my friends' opinions, or--call me crazy--my own reaction to reading the first chapter. Stephen King suggests reading the first 10% before deciding whether to continue to the end. I've appropriated that rule. So if I read the first 45 pages of a 450-page novel and still don't care about the story or characters, I put it down. Sometimes I return to it later, as I did with Roth's <i>The Great American Novel,</i> and find it worthwhile (most books are, if given your attention). But for the most part, I am reluctant to reread a book that I know from experience is boring.<br /><br />Why do I read reviews after the book, then, if I consider myself enough of a reader to be discerning? Why does it matter what anyone else thinks?<br /><br />Tough question. I guess it's the same reason anyone first seeks the opinion of others after sharing a common experience, rather than coming right out with one's own criticism: "Well, thank God <i>that's</i> over, right?...Right, guys?" I have this desire to shape my reactions based on others'. It's like research for a thesis. And it's not like this is exclusive to movies, either. I check RottenTomatoes.com to see what enlightened film-seers have said about the movie I just paid to see. What have the experts said? Where do I agree and disagree with them? How can I frame my opinions in such a way as to sound educated and well-read despite the fact that this is the only book I've read (or movie I've paid to see) in the last three months?<br /><br />More tough questions.<br /><br />--<br /><br />My sister is playing Zelda on the Wii right now, and I find myself distracted by a parabolic spectacle: Link "activates" a monolithic suit of armor by throwing something at it, and it comes to life, hopping on its stone pedestal of a foot in whatever direction Link is running. It holds a massive hammer and resembles a soldier in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QtZQ9Jc2GwQ">Zigzag's army</a> from <i>The Thief and the Cobbler.</i> It follows Link around for maybe a minute until it has been led to a particular spot, and then it stops, raises its hammer, and smashes whatever is before it. Then, its act of violence done, the runic glow fades from its body and it turns back to lifeless rock.<br /><br />I can't help but think that, in some way, reading reviews post-book is like leading the statue to smash something. I seek it out. I activate it. It comes with me. I show it the thing I want to smash. And in a single, irreversible blow, it destroys the thing that was.<br /><br />--<br /><br />King also says not to read the summaries printed on the backs of books, because they weren't written by the author but by some post-grad publishing house clerk who just had a one-night stand with the book, having scanned it in five hours, once.<br /><br />Also, not to read reviews printed on the first ten pages because the people who wrote those either weren't good enough to be hired by the publishing house, or are friends of the author returning a favor.<div><br /></div><div>I wonder how he'd feel about me blogging, then, having never been hired by a publisher or befriended by a reputable author. There is a "Chris" sound in "hypocrisy."<br /><br />I know the hatred of critics is a popular one, but I also can't shake that most of the artists I admire detest the very idea of criticism. Not just that they feel uncomfortable having their stuff reviewed, but that they feel dirty because of it. For King or Mamet, their venue is the popular one, and their judgment can only come from their audience of readers or theatre-goers. (And for those who intrinsically despise those two, I'm sure we can find a common role model who hates critics, too.)<br /><br />Criticism is a coulda-shoulda business, one that keeps amateurs out of the ring through mere intimidation. And the sad thing is that those who have gone to college have been trained to do the same. Myself included.<br /><br />I need to try to be more a fan of good art than a critic of bad art. As my grandma should have taught me, if you have nothing nice to say...do you really think writing a paper about it will make you feel better?<br /><br />--<br /><br />That said, I thought the newest <i>Twilight</i> movie was suck-awful. And I didn't have to read any reviews to reach that conclusion.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-86915653706741511382010-07-05T21:09:00.007-04:002010-07-05T21:15:41.359-04:00Railings<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMFamIAEvZxfFYCIe8qhnDyWwsddnc2sC827ml91zPSPZDe_05ofhWJX0RNZcUkDR3cmB465TkHeO5CKd0a4bqjVfoWI2vg1ibAbWljjO_a_xbjvLvGmv4Cq9xjVRnA4n8oVHDQ-xISnc/s1600/IMG_2986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMFamIAEvZxfFYCIe8qhnDyWwsddnc2sC827ml91zPSPZDe_05ofhWJX0RNZcUkDR3cmB465TkHeO5CKd0a4bqjVfoWI2vg1ibAbWljjO_a_xbjvLvGmv4Cq9xjVRnA4n8oVHDQ-xISnc/s320/IMG_2986.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's not Shakesbear from Stratford, but it is<br />from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory<br />in Seattle, WA.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But it seems that He's told me,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The life that He's showed me</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Is a life mostly spent on the road</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But when the world's empty charm</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Has done all of its harm</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I know that His love waits for me in you arms."</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">--</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">-- Michael Card, "Home"</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">--</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So: </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I abandoned my plans to update at intervals during the trip to Seattle. I was having too much fun to write about it.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But: </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Space Needle couldn't compare with the Fish Market. It was also Gay Pride Day the first full day, and my little sisters and I saw (for the first time) naked painted bodies on bikes. (Take this as you will, but I can't decide whether the cheers of pride supporters on the sidelines more resembled fans or spectators, or whether the whole affair was closer to art or the circus.) Also, walking around Seattle is a joy in itself, full of breeze and changing smells and music coming from interesting places. An elderly hippie had a gray parrot that did tricks. A dozen Chinese and one American sat with right arms raised to their chests in still and silent protest to "Genocide in China." Breakfasts ranged from </span><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pirozhki"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">piroshki</span></a></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> to blueberries to eggs'n'spam'n'rice to Clif bars, lunches were mostly coffee, and dinners were either quite expensive or free. (Vacations are different when you fund them yourself.) There were three Starbuckses surrounding our hotel, the Hyatt in Bellevue, WA, which seemed to transport us into a James Bond movie while making us feel obscenely rich and poor at the same time.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We enjoyed several forays, including an excursion to Forks, WA. This is apparently where the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Twilight</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> story is set, though the movies have all been shot in Forks, OR, for some reason. It rained and it was creepy, but the beach skirting the Pacific Ocean--whose storms have decimated the coastal trees and swallowed the trunks only to regurgitate them like ancient ruins or modern debris onto the bleak sand--melded beauty with the creepiness. My baby sister, who considers herself a fan, was comically horrified at the religious devotion of other tourists to the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Twilight</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> saga. Then we watched the new movie and I criticized the hell out of it. The day ended with a long drive and a ferry ride.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Speaking of boats, we saw (and toured) the carrier wherein my sister works. Not gonna lie, it was pretty damn cool.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I tried oysters. We watched the World Cup. We slept a lot because we got up early a lot. It was a good vacation.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">--</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nebraska welcomed us back, tired and car stiff. Today I helped my dad install the final railings on the deck (a lot of measuring, cutting and wedging) and pressure-wash the grill (a lot of holding, spraying and flying carbon). It rained most of the day, the microscopic kind of drops that feel like your arms are falling asleep.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My mom has her and my sister's dresses mostly ready. The colors are black and ivory, which means that not only will I get a black suit (my first) out of this trip, but possibly also an ivory vest and tie and black shirt combo. That would be sharp.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I taught my mom and dad how to waltz this morning. They subsequently decided not to waltz at the reception, but at least they learned how to lead and follow, which is really what people need to learn anyway if they want to "learn to dance" with a partner. Steps are easy; the subtle physical expression of trust is hard.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'm home for them, for their 25th anniversary and the commemorative renewal of their vows. To help run the event, to walk my mom down the aisle and be my father's best man. To eat fine beef at the reception and hopefully drink champagne. To drive them away from the bubble line in a comical circle in the parking lot, cans rattling under the bumper, only to return to the curb, where by the selfsame bubbles they will be received again. To pose in pictures looking awesome in a new suit. To enjoy a wider sky. To out-shenanigan the dog.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To be back home.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">--</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">One last thing: <i><a href="http://www.boston.com/ae/books/articles/2010/05/13/in_theatre_david_mamet_writes_about_what_works_and_what_doesnt_on_stage/">Theatre</a>,</i> by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6VWXi81NSI">David Mamet</a>,<i> </i>is an amazing little book. It's a breath of fresh air. Read it if you're into theatre, and <i>especially</i> if you went to school for it.</span></span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-61848598851477336372010-06-26T13:58:00.001-04:002010-06-26T14:00:09.063-04:00Indy II<div>"Gracias."</div><div><br /></div><div>-- the end of all Indianapolis International Airport's announcements, which are done in English and then in Spanish</div><div><br /></div><div>--</div><div><br /></div>After wrangling with and succumbing to the airport's <a href="http://www.boingo.com/">Boingo</a> scam, I'm back online.<br /><br />There's an hour before we board. As I told my sister, whom I will see in a matter of hours, I'm surrounded by fogies and farners.<br /><br />The MegaBus got me to Indy, and I had only a vague idea that I needed to head west on Washington to find a Green Line stop to shuttle me to the airport. Along the way, I stopped at the <a href="http://www.pitapitusa.com/home.php">Pita Pit</a> and grabbed a gyro pita with hummus. I took it to go and dragged my suitcase to the <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3099/2568755875_4e86523288.jpg">Circle Center</a>, where I sat in the shadow of the Civil War memorial and ate my pita and took a few pictures. (I'll upload them later.) There was a car show but not many people. Some teens wearing lanyards ignored me as I wiped sweat from my forehead and crouched on the steps, delaying the inevitable dragging of the suitcase to the Green Line stop.<br /><br />It wasn't far, and it didn't take long. The next time I travel so much by bus, I'm going to pay my fare online in advance or (this is more practical) just plan to have exact change. Paying the airport shuttle fare with a credit card is just ridiculous. The driver refused my twenty with reluctance, then asked for plastic. I handed it over and as she swiped it, I felt awkward just standing there so I said, "That's the thing about ATMs, huh? They always give you large bills."<br /><br />"Hm."<br /><br />--<br /><br />Got to the airport and, having checked in yesterday, breezed past the check-ins and made straight for the bar. Enjoyed an overpriced Jack and coke and watched some tennis on the high-def. Buzzed, I breezed again, this time to security, where I extracted my plastic baggie of liquids, chucked my Aquafina bottle, took off my belt and shoes, and removed all electronics from my bags. (I had to be reminded about the shoes, but otherwise I was prepared, having paid attention when I watched <i><a href="http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=2299688">Up in the Air</a>.)</i><br /><i><br /></i><br />The seats are filling around me. I need to read or something.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-71305366136817795402010-06-26T11:10:00.004-04:002010-06-26T11:14:02.550-04:00Indianapolis<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“They love my little mustache<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">They love a man in uniform.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Ben Folds, “Rent-A-Cop”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">8:15AM</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">I was just kicked out of a public restroom in the mall. I was evicted while evacuating.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">The bus stopped at my apartment’s corner. The machine ate my five and I had to get change from two Latinas who boarded after me and who stared suspiciously when the driver told them to give their cash to me. I sat in the nearest seat, tucking my briefcase under and hooking a finger into the handle of the suitcase. Halfway towards downtown I realized I should have hefted the suitcase onto the rack beside the door, but the vacant and judging eyes of the other passengers held me to my place.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">I got off at 4<sup>th</sup> and Vine, a block east of where the MegaBus will pick me up and take me to Indianapolis. Awkward and conspicuous, I entered the Starbucks there, stuffed my stuff in a corner, and ordered coffee. I’m drinking it now. My phone buzzed to remind me of the time. I got up and returned to the sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">This suitcase was with me years ago when last I flew on a trip to Scotland. When the black case slid out of the flaps and down the ramp and onto the revolving oval of Baggage Claim, I saw that something black and spindly had been taped haphazardly to it. When it got to me, I saw: the towing handle, the kind that retracts into the back of the bag, had popped out of its holes and some handler had made good by going for the packing tape. (There. All better.) Fast forward to today. My luggage transport options are to bend in half as I walk like a hunchback with the de-armed suitcase in tow, or to lug it around. If I lug it, I rock as I walk. If I bend over, it can roll. To rock, or to roll?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Starbucks inexplicably didn’t have a bathroom, so I walked to the mall lobby that doubles as the pick-up zone for MegaBus. I knew the food court there, and its restroom. I was impatient on the down escalator. Sbarro, Chick-Fil-A, Cajun and Japanese portals. Tall white faux-marble columns. A dry, greening, metal fountain like the ruined bastion of modern art in the center of an army of shiny tables. No one was there, of course, except for an old man reading the funnies and not laughing. Restrooms in the corner—I beelined. At the entrance, leaning on a bar and watching his watch, was the mall cop, a thin-mustached young guy who took one look at me and my big black bag and straightened his posture. (Terrorist?) I smiled. “Good morning,” we said, cowboys in some vacant modern saloon. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">I’ll spare the in-stall details. An old man—maybe the same guy who was reading the funnies—tried the door, peeked through the crack. “Excuse me.” Shortly after he found a throne of his own, the mall cop’s voice came reverberating around us: “Two minutes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">I didn’t know what that meant. I chose to ignore it, returning to my reading.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Later, as I washed my hands, the mall cop’s image appeared in the mirror like Dracula behind </span>me. “Two minutes,” he repeated.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“Cool,” I said, not knowing what else to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">The mall cop disappeared and then reentered. “I don’t mean to be a dick,” he said. “But sometimes guys sleep in here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“No problem.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">I took everything back into the food court, where the old man had been replaced by an old lady reading a magazine at a different table. I sat at a table at the foot of the escalators, extracted my laptop, and started typing this entry. A few minutes later, the mall cop swaggered by and told me to have a nice day. Then the Mexican workers who run the Japanese portal arrived, eyeing me with confusion like I was a redecoration they didn’t like. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Just now, a bald, older mall cop descended the escalator like a god. He’s been adjusting a sign (PLEASE KEEP ESCALATOR LANDING CLEAR) for two minutes. He walked away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">The changing of the guard is complete. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“In a cold place<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">You know well.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span>The Good, the Bad & the Queen, “Northern Whale”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">9:15AM<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Aboard the MegaBus. Fifteen minutes to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">The driver and a loader checked me in and took my suitcase. I took a seat but then saw a sign (THIS BUS HAS FREE WIFI AND 110V POWER OUTLETS) that moved me. Amidships there’s a pair of table with seats facing inward. I sat across from a speckle-skinned blond woman who sneered when I put my briefcase across from her. An obese hipster girl—also a blond—across the aisle offered to share her table. I thanked her but started to get situated anyway, only to realize that the outlet in the ceiling is so far from the table that the adapter box would be dangling precariously from the power cord at eye-level of the speckle-skinned blond. “On second thought,” I said, and switched to the port side, which for some reason is raised about two feet higher than starboard. My power outlet doesn’t seem to work, but the obese hipster blond—who also has about a dozen piercings just in her face, including the unfortunate Chicago Bulls-esque circular nose ring—offered to switch out whenever my battery drained. I bet she’s really nice, but I doubt we’ll actually talk on this two-hour journey. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">The speckle-skinned blond turns out to be a snob. Her cell phone rang—loudly—and she hissed at it, “Jesus Christ.” She answered and demanded that the other person buy “the good gazpacho.” The other person apparently asked what gazpacho was and she huffed and explained. </span>When she hung up she took out her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Food & Wine</i> magazine. She’s reading it now. She flips her pages as if she wants people to hear the progress she’s making.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">From where I sit, with the obese hipster blond on my left and the snobby speckle-skinned blond on my right, I perceive them as two circles in a Venn diagram: what is different between these two? What is alike? I imagine they buy food in the same places—Whole Foods, the Findlay Farmer’s Market, organic and “green” restaurants that serve everything with feta and/or balsamic vinaigrette—and vote for the same politicians. But the snob does these things for the sake of snobbery, for the privilege of informing others what the difference is between good and bad gazpacho. This mindset has come to define her, and she never intended for that to happen, but well, here she is. Her devotion to obscure organic food, fine wines, and trendy outfits has become her job, a vocation she loathes but maintains for its benefits.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">For the hipster blond, she is still redefining her mindset. She sees the poor argument for liberals across the aisle and thinks, “You’re no different from them anymore, you know.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Most of the other passengers are opting for the upper deck, but I’m content to remain raised two feet on the bottom level. I ride upper deck if I’m a tourist, because that’s the best spot for photos. But on this trip, I’d like to sink, to stay in the womb, to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“I went lookin’ for my darling<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">I went lookin’ for a sign<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">And I found her in the morning<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Somewhere in the back of my mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Belle & Sebastian, “Wrong Love”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">9:40AM<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">A problem emerges with the whole typing-on-a-bus thing: the table wiggles and the laptop vibrates, turning the simple act of typing into a game of whack-a-mole. I keep hitting backspace. The screen fills with doubled words and I feel like I’m watching a Danny Boyle film.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">I’ve ridden MegaBus before, for a one-day trip to Chicago when my sister finished Navy boot camp. My memory of that ride is cloudy because it began on a rainy day after a stressful week of touring and an especially stressful day wherein a co-worker was fired. I was the road manager of that tour, and as such I had known about the imminent termination for almost the entire week. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">So when it finally happened, when the bosses showed up in the rain to help us load out and sequester the target and give him the news, when he added teardrops to raindrops and wordlessly grabbed his things from the van where the rest of us sat in silence and watched as he refused a ride home and marched, proud in his shame, towards the nearest bus stop…after all this transpired there was a tremendous release. The van was silent for a time. Another actor said to be honest with her: “Did y’all know this was gonna happen?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“Yeah,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">They drove me to the mall and dropped me off. I waved and sat near an old couple and their red luggage. I sat for a long time, thinking about the firing. The bus came and I boarded without thinking about it. I watched trees and grass fields and creeks and dwelled on the firing, on the knowledge.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“Well I’ve been thinking about<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">And I’ve been breaking it down<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Without an answer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Monsters of Folk, “Dear God (Sincerely M. O. F.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">10:02AM<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Right now, on the highway and looking out the window across the aisle, the ghost reflection of our side of the bus appears superimposed on the scenery. It makes me doubly aware of our velocity, our bullet trajectory westward, because the trees in the window and the trees in the glass blur past at different speeds. It is like being on a train.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">The coffee has cooled in the cup, but its work is still good. The wi-fi cuts in and out, and right now it’s out. I had hoped to upload these entries to my travel blog, but I guess I’ll have to wait.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t tell the people that they gotta go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Michael Franti & Spearhead, “Hey Now Now”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">--<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">10:44AM<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Stopped at a fueling station. I’d call it a gas station, except that it sounds more adventurous to say fueling station, and because it is more of a place for huge tankers to refuel than it is for small cars to fill a tank. A Risinger semi truck has pulled up beside the bus and Humpty-Dumpty climbed out of the cabin. The snobby blond has her bare feet up on the seats across from her. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">She naps.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">When we pulled up the driver announced the stop as “our lunch break,” telling us that if we wanted food, we should get it to go. “We aren’t stopping for a long time. Twenty minutes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Because I’m not a fan of peeing in moving vehicles, I’ve been holding it for a while. I joined the exodus for the promised land of the fueling station restroom. The urinal pad had 6/18 markered on it. I’m refraining from buying station food (McDonald’s and Subway are the only non-packaged options) because I’m really going to try to save money on this trip. So far today I’ve only bought bus fare and a small coffee. We only have another half hour or so until Indy, anyway. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">My hunger can fester.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Once in Indy, I need to grab lunch and get on the airport shuttle, which hopefully isn’t any more than a few blocks from the drop-off. There are three hours between disembarking the bus and boarding the plane. If I read the Indy bus schedule correctly, I will have only about half an hour’s playtime in the city before I have to get onto another vehicle. For now, it’s nice to be still.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">An old black woman came down from the upper deck and took a seat. “Excuse me,” said another elderly woman, “there were two young men sitting there before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“Anyone sitting there?” the old black lady asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“I don’t care about them. They can find another seat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“Oh,” the other woman said, as if she’d just been flicked on the nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">“They’re my grandkids,” the old black lady explained, and laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">The other woman went to the back door, where the two young men were about to board. “Sir,” she told them, “I tried to save your seat. But she—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">One of the young men looked into the bus. “That’s my Grandma,” he said. “It’s cool.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Now the two elderly ladies are conversing—I’d say talking, but there’s a wonderful lyrical formality to the way old people speak, especially old women, that is more like an exchange of pleasantries and blithe information than trivial chitchat—about their respective trips. Both are staying on the bus until it reaches Chicago. The old black lady hasn’t said what she’ll do there, but the other woman will be staying in Chicago until July, when her sister will drive her out to Iowa for a few weeks. “I just turned 70 a week ago,” she says, “but I stopped working a long time before that.” She was a secretary and then a teacher. The old black lady still works in hospitals.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">More of the older folks from the lower deck are returning. They make hooting sounds as they step inside, and I can hear them panting as they shuffle to their seats. One of the old ladies welcomes them—“You made it back!”—as if the trip from bus to bathroom to counter to bus again was an epic journey. I smell McDonald’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">My focus drifts elsewhere. Humpty Dumpty has returned to his chariot. He has what looks like a Turkish bazaar tattooed on his left arm and what is definitely a naked mermaid on his right. Inside the shop, a mechanical female voice announces that the bus to Indianapolis and Chicago is leaving. The bus driver returns and announces, “Load it up!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Just as I’m starting to wonder how many people get left behind at this stop each year, something in the bus whirs up like a quiet siren (the sound is not unlike the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wwwwooooo</i> of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Enterprise</i> just before she warps), and we are back on the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;font-family:";">Next stop: Indianapolis, Indiana.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-46049917823768606142010-06-25T14:15:00.004-04:002010-06-26T11:17:03.443-04:00Twit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.jumpstation.ca/recroom/comedy/python/images/twit3.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 191px;" src="http://www.jumpstation.ca/recroom/comedy/python/images/twit3.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">my daughter is the best for this kind of thing. her name is T***** D****. she is 13 years old and she loves to sing and dance and act out her favorit sences from her favorit shows on disney channel. she dosent dare to mess up on anything. i jsut wanted to let you know tyhat im the best mom because i have the best teenager for this kind of thing thank you. if you want to call or text me my # is ***-****." [sic]</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">-- an actual email I received from a stage mother</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"And don't, don't forget to write me</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Don't forget your family."</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">-- The Seedy Seeds, "Dandelion," <i>Count the Days</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On my way to Chipotle for a lunch burrito, I found myself caught (once again) at the intersection of Madison and Ridge, which is choked by construction. It's been this way for weeks now. It turns five-minute drives into half-hour delays; that's a lot of wasted hours, folks.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And I guess I shouldn't mind, let alone complain (construction happens), except that it's so obviously a poor use of resources. Two patrol cars, manned by bored cops, flank a drying platform of newly poured cement, obliterating a the left-turn and center lanes. A neon green-vested man aims a powerful water hose at the pavement, cleaning out the grooves separating gutter from asphalt. He sprays and sprays, but the road is on a slope and he is spraying uphill, so any grime that muds and flows simply pools six feet away and eddies its way down again. It's almost existential, watching him do this while I'm waiting in inchworm traffic. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Guarding all of this stand maniacal hordes of orange cones and barrels, sentries under summer's sun. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As always before long trips, I'm racking up listening material. Here are my latest additions:</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Spoken Word</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- <i>This American Life: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/This-American-Life-Stories-Hope/dp/B000IONLFY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1277487369&sr=8-1">Stories of Hope and Fear</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- This American Life: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Crimebusters-Crossed-Wires-Stories-American/dp/B0000TG9WY/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1277487369&sr=8-2">Crimebusters + Crossed Wires</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- <a href="http://www.amazon.com/CAR-TALK-HATCHBACK-NOTRE-DAME/dp/B000XYY05E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1277487408&sr=1-1">The Hatchback of Notre Dame</a>: More Car Talk Classics</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UagpFoguoUY">Holidays on Ice</a>,</i> by David Sedaris</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/FRESH-AIR-STARS/dp/B000XYY05Y/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1277487470&sr=1-1">Stars</a>: Fresh Air with Terry Gross</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBdcQmZ9TBc">Guy Noir</a>: Radio Private Eye</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- NPR Driveway Moments: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/NPR-DRIVEWAY-MOMENTS-ABOUT-ANIMALS/dp/B000Y14TY8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1277487549&sr=1-1">All About Animals</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(maybe this should have been called the NPR section)</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Music</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- Pink Martini,<i> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZyp2j3Jabg">Splendor in the Grass</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>-</i> Monsters of Folk,<i> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/MonstersOfFolk?blend=2&ob=1">Monsters of Folk</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- The Frames, <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-SGuig4Z-A">Dance the Devil...</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xh0VHmrky9c">Quincy Jones & Bill Cosby</a>, <i>The Original Jam Sessions 1969</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- Fol Chen, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Part-John-Shade-Your-Fortunes/dp/B001NJY51W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1277487682&sr=1-1">Part I: John Shade, Your Fortune's Made</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- Feist, <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ob1CdTLDj10">Let It Die</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- Loose Fur, <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMhLPUWLO9o">Born Again in the USA</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- Belle & Sebastian, <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CQSLT0zcvk">The BBC Sessions</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- Bjork, <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DdD3VMouqKs">Volta</a></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Soundtrack</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- <i>Where the Wild Things Are</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- The Hunchback of Notre Dame</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- There Will Be Blood</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- Slumdog Millionaire</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- The Incredibles</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- Mark Twain</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- Snakes on a Plane</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tomorrow begins the trip. I can't wait to see Seattle and the sisters.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The walk from my apartment to the Megabus pick-up point is 3 miles, now that the blue bridge is <a href="http://nky.cincinnati.com/article/AB/20091020/NEWS0103/910210364/Roebling-Bridge-to-get-paint-job">out of commission</a>. I'm thinking about taking the <a href="http://tankbus.org/">Tank</a> instead, just because I don't want to lug around heavy brief- and suitcases for an hour. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The bus frightens me, not gonna lie. One of the stops is right at my corner. Most mornings there are three or more folks squatting on the porch, eyes left, waiting. Most of my fear is unfounded, I'm sure, but you can't live in Cincinnati without hearing horror stories: random stabbings, casual theft, general odiousness. I'm a tiny guy with nerdy glasses and bags obviously packed for a vacation; but if little old women can clutch their bags and smile from the window seats, I guess I can give it a try.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've only been on <a href="http://twitter.com/stewartchrisj">Twitter</a> for three days, but already it's starting to make sense. Analyzing any internet networking site is like explaining a joke, so I won't analyze it. Still, before joining I always wondered what the appeal was--what made Twitter anything more than a page full of Facebook status updates?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm inclined to think of it as just a simplified Facebook, a place where users could share statuses without getting bogged down by profiles, apps, etc. All things considered, I use Facebook more and thus prefer it. But because my Twitter connections are more limited (without the sprawling friends list created by obligation and popular frenzy) I find myself restraining myself more and updating less. I get the impression that I have yet to "get" Twitter.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don't think this restraint is universal--some Twitter friends update so often that it just calls attention to the ridiculousness of telling the internet what you're doing. And anyway, this has all been said before. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Just like pretty much everything else on Facebook or Twitter. Like a twit, I repeat what others have said and call it mine. Shoot, like an <i>actor.</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>One day to go.<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-33972185968665646372010-06-24T17:07:00.004-04:002010-06-24T17:13:19.856-04:00Vendors<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.myhorizon.com.my/uploads/Lifestyle%20-%20My%20kitchen/main.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://www.myhorizon.com.my/uploads/Lifestyle%20-%20My%20kitchen/main.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strange French food</td></tr></tbody></table>"Here in Cologne<br />I know I said it wrong."<br /><br />-- Ben Folds, "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkiMdAPmJLU">Cologne</a>," <i>Way to Normal</i><br /><i><br /></i><br />--<br /><br />For fingers on the pulse of Cincinnati, some interesting links:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.urbancincy.com/2010/05/cincinnati-enquirer-abandoning-city-interests/">http://www.urbancincy.com/2010/05/cincinnati-enquirer-abandoning-city-interests/</a><br /><a href="http://www.bizjournals.com/cincinnati/stories/2010/06/21/daily36.html">http://www.bizjournals.com/cincinnati/stories/2010/06/21/daily36.html</a><br /><br />I guess what gets me about only okaying 20 mobile street vendors is that a lot of existing ones will obviously be out of work. This seems like a shifty ploy by the city to squeeze money out of people who are poor already, employed by literally the smallest of small businesses. The local NPR's report this morning hinted that the city would soon take control of the vendors entirely.<br /><br />Also, it's an easy way to cut down the street vending industry, which arguably helps downtown restaurants. Then again, most of those restaurants aren't <i>really</i> competing with the vendors, who sell hot dogs and lemonade slushies and such. How is a diner selling coffee and eggs, or a Mediterranean bistro, or a sit-down chili joint, competing with the guy with the aluminum cart across the street?<br /><br />Seems to me, the vendors handle the visitors, fans and families who just want to eat, who don't want to <i>stop</i> and eat. Restaurants get the locals, who are probably sickened by the idea of "street food" anyway.<div><br /></div><div>Vendors have always had to fend for themselves.<br /><br />Not that it affects me in any way, but I think it's a pointless decision. You want to control the real commerce on the streets, tackle the real problem? Go after the drug dealers, not the food vendors. Give the dealers 20 permits to use. Get your hands in something that matters.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or, you know, don't. Just leave it alone.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Also: <a href="http://www.cincinnatibites.com/reviews/salt-of-the-earth/">Salt of the Earth</a>, an "upscale comfort food restaurant" near work, is really terrific. Co-workers have been prompting a visit for months. Just had their roast beef sandwich and blue cheese cole slaw. Delicious.<br /><br />Oh, and I also had a scrumptious macaroon, the first of my life. Now I know why the Victorians <a href="http://pearlinparis.vox.com/library/post/macaroons.html">wrote plays</a> about macaroons.<br /><br />--<br /><br />As a college senior, once I realized I was going to have to cook for myself on a regular basis, I started doing so to practice. Sometimes I'd invite people over to up the ante. It was largely a performance--flirting with enticing recipes, really trying to impress. I'd spend a whole week thinking about what I'd make on Friday night.<br /><br />That changed when I actually moved out on my own. Granted, a house with seven women isn't the greatest place to perform culinary experiments, but whenever the place was vacant and the kitchen was empty I tried my hand. Sometimes the results were good, and sometimes I just pretended they were. (One bizarre concoction combined Ramen soup, rice, peppers, garlic, chicken, beer, and honey. It tasted very, very weird.)<br /><br />As my living situation improved, so did my cooking. While a sad budget makes for elemental meals, I'm still proud to make my own stuff. I went through a meatloaf phase, buying and baking a pound of ground beef per week. (This was back when I was trying not to eat carbs.) I went through a cabbage phase. I'm just now emerging from a cream of chicken phase.<br /><br />Now that I'm trying to <a href="http://www.abbamoses.com/fasting.html">fast like an Orthodox</a>, the restrictions are much more, well, restricting. No meat, fish, wine or animal products of any kind on Wednesdays and Fridays. And technically, since we're in the Apostle's Fast right now, devout Orthodox are fasting for the entire month.<br /><br />I asked my priest about it a few weeks ago. "We are in the middle of a pretty strenuous fast," he said. He looked at me. "You...heh, you just do the Wednesdays and Fridays for now. Once you get that, you can do more."<br /><br />Wednesdays and Fridays, that's all. It's been a challenge. The main results have been a) I go to Chipotle at least twice a week now, b) I try to eat fruit a lot more, and c) Thursday is my "oasis day," the day I can splurge and glut myself. It's the feast between fasts.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Two days until Indianapolis and Seattle. With vague plans in the works, including an excursion of sibling appeasement to <a href="http://graphicnovelscomics.suite101.com/article.cfm/twilight_movie_filmed_in_portland_oregon">wherever they filmed the </a><i><a href="http://graphicnovelscomics.suite101.com/article.cfm/twilight_movie_filmed_in_portland_oregon">Twilight</a></i><a href="http://graphicnovelscomics.suite101.com/article.cfm/twilight_movie_filmed_in_portland_oregon"> movies</a>, I'm starting to pack my bag and my carry-on. Megabussing to Indy, then flying to Seattle. Got a week in the Pacific Northwest before a leisurely road trip back to Omaha and my parent's 25th Anniversary, a renewing of the vows ceremony. Gotta get my new suit's pants hemmed at some point.<br /><br />I will wake early on Saturday. I will drag my bags across the river to a downtown corner and wait. And if possible, I will buy something from a street vendor.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-14311109202904798282010-06-23T14:07:00.007-04:002010-06-23T16:23:38.541-04:00Pants<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU-tsKtyoG5q9lEoSUN2zsAgnJbVI7WnCSE_gb5GCXLlsIOMGa6msnELhJ02CcBNE6T6d4hs85RXUPS3L_GjOuNqxcabB-n5mQ6aYCNcUlmSLFrFkGKHa3NJGo2DOWuy_FeRpxnGxh7uk/s1600/Blackfriars+Virginia.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 185px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU-tsKtyoG5q9lEoSUN2zsAgnJbVI7WnCSE_gb5GCXLlsIOMGa6msnELhJ02CcBNE6T6d4hs85RXUPS3L_GjOuNqxcabB-n5mQ6aYCNcUlmSLFrFkGKHa3NJGo2DOWuy_FeRpxnGxh7uk/s200/Blackfriars+Virginia.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486067407297564850" /></a><br /><div>"I placed a jar in Tennessee,</div>And round it was, upon a hill."<br /><br />-- Wallace Stevens, "<a href="http://writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/stevens-ancedote.html">Anecdote of the Jar</a>"<br /><br />--<br /><br />I left my pants in Maryland.<br /><br />Highlights from the foray eastward included: a ragtag bunch of weighty street fighters practicing WWF moves on each other in the trees lining the National Mall, and the crowd's disgust at the sudden appearance of a large (and long) butt crack; an Australian lying in the grass to take a picture of a traveling stuffed wombat with the Capitol in the background; the never-ending and <a href="http://www.classicalvalues.com/archives/FDR_memorial.jpg">creepy FDR memorial</a> (notice that this statue seems to force picture posers to stand between the president's legs); overhearing nonsense on the subway; being refused Athenian beer at a Greek diner because it was 1:30AM.<br /><br />And yes, seeing Johnny, Ari, Zachary, Gabe, Caity, Tony and Chase.<br /><br />The return trip included the impressive Appalachian vistas of West Virginia and regular Virginia, a banter-filled tour of the <a href="http://www.americanshakespearecenter.com/v.php?pg=1">Blackfriars playhouse</a> in Staunton (thanks to Chase for the connect), a long-awaited but worth-it lunch at a Mediterranean joint, and the gorgeous blond southern belle who waited on Zach and me at a Cracker Barrel.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Last week, on Nick T.'s advice, I checked out some albums by <a href="http://www.gillianwelch.com/">Gillian Welch</a>, whose heartfelt Appalachian songs are really beautiful. <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Revival-Gillian-Welch/dp/B00005KHE3/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1277315134&sr=8-1">Revival</a></i> is my favorite of the ones I listened to.<br /><br />Just picked up another, self-titled album called <a href="http://www.godhelpthegirl.com/"><i>God Help the Girl</i></a><i>.</i> The CD has a list of tracks that fooled me as I read them--I thought they were liner notes or a short introductory poem:<br /><br /><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Musician, Please Take Heed</b></span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Perfection as a Hipster</b></span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Come Monday Night</b></span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>The Music Room Window</b></span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>I Just Want Your Jeans</b></span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>I'll Have to Dance with Cassie</b></span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>A Down and Dusky Blonde</b></span></span></blockquote><br />But it's not. It's just the last half of the track names.<br /><br />Another album I've got playing in my car, <i><a href="http://www.explosionsinthesky.com/allofasudden.html">All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone</a>,</i> by Explosions in the Sky. It's a rock symphony, entirely instrumental, very <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pP09piedtAk">powerful</a>.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Last week's <a href="http://www.examiner.com/x-31741-Cincinnati-West-Side-Examiner~y2010m5d22-Summer-drama-day-camp-offered-at-Covedale-Center-for-the-Performing-Arts">CYPT Prep</a> was a huge success. It was good to be lead instructor and coordinator on that one.<br /><br />I wrote about them <a href="http://stewiechris.blogspot.com/2010/06/then-imitate-action-of-tiger.html">before</a>, but it is worth revisiting just because it was the culmination of a yearlong process of trial and error.<br /><br />The first group we had, in October 2009, numbered out at 25 kids. We went for originality and improvisation, trying to create a new show written by the kids. It was a near disaster: rambunctious kids weighed down discussions, lethargic kids simply sat out activities. The second time, in February 2010, we tried for an evening of scenes where each child worked on a scene and a monologue twice a week, for five weeks. There were so few kids that each one got plenty of attention, but overall the scope seemed curbed. Kids got bored.<br /><br />But this time, we had 31 kids and 3 instructors who used plenty of material and resources. There was more to to work on (we added a whole dance class), and there were more places to go (we split them up into three groups by age and used various backstage areas as "classrooms"). By constantly changing locale and material, we kept ourselves in the driver's seat while at the same time keeping them interested.<br /><br />We didn't get overwhelmed, and they didn't get bored, and nobody got disappointed. Like I said: success.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Came back to work yesterday and it was like the first day of school: busy, confusing, and awkward. I've since whittled down my Inbox from 70 emails to 35, though the 15 voice mails I transcribed from the machine are mostly still unanswered. Workshops all week, every morning a drain, every afternoon a toil.<br /><br />The thing I most appreciated about working for the Covedale--if only for a week--was that they stood beside and behind me. A parent complained when I put some pressure on his daughter to memorize her lines and she in turn told her father she had been "kicked out of the program." My boss's response was, "Sir, that simply did not happen. I know Chris, and I know that's not what he said." Later, when the irate father called to note that "stories are changing at home," we all felt vindicated.<br /><br />We laughed about it later, after the performance was over and the pizza was mostly devoured and the parents had taken all the children away.<br /><br />Not to make too fine a point on it, but at my regular job I am regularly, almost routinely, overstepped and sold out by bosses. Parents complain and I am scapegoated. They go up the chain of command where they find sympathetic ears. It was nice to have a change of pace--again, if only for a week.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-66646346306246369072010-06-18T13:21:00.004-04:002010-06-23T16:25:00.687-04:00Tigers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnY6UtrJzigQCtw2rxlc0R7I5Aq_ZJbofRTtUrf_PticFRGFziH7EyRL56ZcZboCKIzc8Y-J2kg6E0REmHEkI3URTOdibkkgZGOYmpheBTwuP0NyHp1CwUZ9sZAyny1TPSui2vGKFTESg/s1600/Covedale.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 143px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnY6UtrJzigQCtw2rxlc0R7I5Aq_ZJbofRTtUrf_PticFRGFziH7EyRL56ZcZboCKIzc8Y-J2kg6E0REmHEkI3URTOdibkkgZGOYmpheBTwuP0NyHp1CwUZ9sZAyny1TPSui2vGKFTESg/s200/Covedale.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486067787793095378" /></a><br />"Then imitate the action of the tiger."<br /><br />-- Henry in <i>King Henry V,</i> by William Shakespeare<br /><br />--<br /><br />Zach just called. He's about ten minutes away.<br /><br />My car's in the shop, getting its plugs replaced. A good mechanic is hard to find. The honest ones are sometimes hard to trust.<br /><br />This time tomorrow we'll be somewhere else, somewhere between here and there. Washington, DC, folks. Been a few years since I've been there, and it'll only be a few hours till I'm there again. Seeing the Thurows, Caity W., and perhaps other folks. Spread the word. Reunion is imminent, and most welcome.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Tonight, the showcase for the Covedale Young People's Theatre Prep. Thirty-one kids, in only four days, memorized and perfected 5 Aesop's fables, a 10-minute play, 4 scenes from contemporary plays and musicals, 11 commercials, 12 standard monologues, 8 Shakespearean soliloquies, <i>AND</i> an entire dance number from <i>Newsies.</i><br /><i><br /></i><br />I'd call this one a success.<br /><br />--<br /><br />The Shakespeare group, the eight oldest students, has been awesome. It's made the stressful and difficult job of "lead instructor" nothing short of theatrical bliss. One kid, Michael, really got into <i>King Henry V,</i> the "Once more unto the breach, dear friends" monologue. We went through it line by line. He asked about tone. We talked about tone. And poetic diction. Then I asked him, "Can you think of any situation where you've heard people talking like this?"<br /><br />"Like a football coach?"<br /><br />"Awesome, yes."<br /><br />And from there, he has built. These are middle-school kids, folks. Michael is 12, I think, and he's performing Shakespeare--not just reciting words, but delivering them as lines. Anyone who tells you that middle-schoolers aren't intellectually ready to tackle Shakespeare really means to say that they aren't willing to take the time to teach it.<br /><br />For Michael, it took four days. He and the others perform tonight at 6pm. Then, pizza party.<br /><br />And then, DC.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-61467677611645388532010-06-10T13:26:00.000-04:002010-06-10T13:26:54.079-04:00Romans"Peter was a Judaizer."<br />
"Not like the Far Right."<br />
...<br />
"What does Bishop Ware say? 'I have been saved, I'm being saved, and I hope I shall be shaved'--sorry, not shaved. <i>Saved."</i><br />
<br />
-- quips from last night's Bible study<br />
<br />
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Romans are everywhere.<br />
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My sisters have both become involved with Romans. My littlest one appears to be in a casual relationship with a guy named Roman. My middle one has just secured lodging with a group of Navy friends...one of whom is named Roman.<br />
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And last night, I attended the first summer Bible study at <a href="http://www.christthesavioroca.org/">Christ the Savior-Holy Spirit</a>, of St. Paul's <i>Epistle to the Romans</i>.<br />
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It's been awhile since I've sat with people to discuss a text. There have been the poetry nights, yes, those anthologies of discussion, and in the adaptation of plays you talk about diction and plot, but nothing like those memorable college classes where everyone sat--including the professor--together in a small space, some infinite depths of text to explore, a simultaneous learning.<br />
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We <a href="http://orthodoxmeditations.blogspot.com/2010/06/romans-orthodox-bible-study.html">began</a> last night, after Vespers.<br />
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There were a dozen, at first. More came after we had secured tables and chairs in the basement, and we unfolded more of both as needed. The plastic tables were embossed on the ends: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">LIFETIME</span>. The partitions were movable, set on wheels, half tall as real walls, and we spread them as our study grew.<br />
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How much is there to say about the epistle? Plenty, but not here--the life of the church is in the reading and the discussion, and all that. Some tidbits, though:<br />
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<b>1.) Paul never went to Rome.</b> Except, that is, when he was arrested and beheaded there. The epistle is the only one he sent to a church he did neither founded nor visited.<br />
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<b>2.) Romans is long.</b> Like the Roman army, it is large and formidable. Those who know the text well speak familiarly of the climactic fall and rise of chapters 7 and 8. I'm sad to say I'm not well-versed enough to comment.<br />
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<b>3.) Peter was not the first Pope.</b> Not even the first bishop of Rome, and who it actually was even Roman Catholics will admit is still unknown. Interestingly, Paul never once mentions Peter in the entirety of the epistle.<br />
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<b>4.) Peter pissed off Paul.</b> At <a href="http://www.stempublishing.com/magazines/cf/1893/Pauls-Conflict-with-Peter-at-Antioch.html">Antioch</a>, Paul felt Peter had undermined and betrayed him. While they operated to accomplish the same things, they were radically different (and apparently they really were radicals) in their approaches. Peter was ultra-conservative; Paul was incredibly liberal. Paul's position probably has something to do with #5:<br />
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<b>5.)</b> <b>Paul was, above all other apostles, incredibly passionate.</b> In the words of Fr. Steven last night, <i>Remember, Paul had constantly had to defend his apostleship. He wasn't one of the original Twelve, and his experience with Christ is an entirely firsthand account.</i><br />
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Other things can be said, too--I was interested that Martin Luther's "faith alone" concept is a blending of two separate verses. Paul quotes Habakkuk: "The just shall live by faith," to which Luther adds the word "alone." That phrase appears nowhere in the New Testament except in the book of James, who only used the phrase to say that "faith alone without works is dead."<br />
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Yowza. No wonder Martin Luther considered James heretical and wanted his book stricken from the Gospel.<br />
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My boss has taken her byline off the adaptation of <i>Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,</i> which <a href="http://www.thechildrenstheatre.com/pdfs/2011_brochure_artreach.pdf">ArtReach</a> will tour next year. This means the play will be written by me, and me alone. My gratitude exceeds words--it will be my first solo project as a professional playwright.<br />
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And it's <i>Huck Finn.</i><br />
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At the moment, I'm wrestling with it: How to approach the last 25 minutes of this play? There's a lot of blood and darkness in the story, and this adaptation has to be elementary school-friendly. We can deal with Tom getting shot in the leg, and maybe even Huck's famous "All right then, I'll go to hell." But the deaths?<br />
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Then there's the basic question of time. Forget content for a moment. To involve the Duke and the King, set up Jim's capture, bring in Tom Sawyer, play out the failed escape plan, and then to explain such a speedy and complicated resolution--it's gonna be tough.<br />
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I don't want to ravage the text. But I also don't want to bore the kids with a superficial rendering of what is truly an amazing, iconic story.<br />
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I guess this is what artists call "working."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4485702201154726461.post-68191884658980465542010-06-08T12:19:00.001-04:002010-06-08T12:20:23.302-04:00Littluns<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_L3Vn7Kvt8cSSMRA7dxjEIXULzrC3lIXX57_sBuHUZfK3lDZ9ANOUNOqOHVHd1Dc1QKlwIA68Sy8g8RbzCC7QiWcSispB0I2Qf5Ig-QF53Sfel8R8iOfoUL5wefV1LuMYlboX5G_hiI/s320/AmazingGrace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_L3Vn7Kvt8cSSMRA7dxjEIXULzrC3lIXX57_sBuHUZfK3lDZ9ANOUNOqOHVHd1Dc1QKlwIA68Sy8g8RbzCC7QiWcSispB0I2Qf5Ig-QF53Sfel8R8iOfoUL5wefV1LuMYlboX5G_hiI/s320/AmazingGrace.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />"Amazing Grace," by Deborah Woodall </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />"The audience was stunned<br />It was appalling<br />But it's not appalling what they saw<br />I saw it in a movie once."<br /><br />-- The Seedy Seeds, "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNg1hou3bZU">The Push</a>," <i>Count the Days</i><br /><i><br /></i><br />--<br /><br />Today, a 13-year-old sent me an email from her iPad. A mom informed me that she and her daughter will leave the country for two months on an extended vacation while the husband/father does business in exotic environs of the world. And my little sister didn't know what a "medley" was.<br /><br />We're letting the next generation down, folks.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Today, I will do my favorite workshop, "Art Alive!" Seventeen kids at the <a href="http://www.cincinnatilibrary.org/branches/harrison.html">Harrison Branch</a> of the Cincinnati Public Library will learn about art. We will ask of a number of paintings the 5 W's, ending with "Why?" We will learn how to bring art to life by incarnating it. And the paintings shall become flesh.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://rusart.ca/images/chagall_002full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://rusart.ca/images/chagall_002full.jpg" width="308" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />"The Walk," by Marc Chagall </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />Workshops are very self-styled here. We have a basic format that all our teaching artists follow, but we adapt whenever possible. No two classes get the same exact session, because no two classes have the same exact kids. That sounds like lip service, but really, it's not. Workshops add variety to this job.<br /><br />Most kids have never had to look at paintings this way, with a critical eye. When I tell them the title of this Chagall is "The Walk," I can see their minds chewing on the question begged: <i>Why is it called that if the man is standing still and the woman is flying?</i><br /><br />Why, indeed.<br /><br />I love blowing their minds. For the What section, I show them three paintings in rapid succession: "It's Poppin' Baby, Can You Feel It?" by Marcus Glenn; "Three Women Playing Musical Instruments," by Anonymous; and Picasso's "Three Musicians." The subject in all three paintings is the same: each depicts a musical trio. But now we can discuss <i>How</i> these depictions were made, and <i>Why</i> the painters chose to use radically different styles to show the same <i>What.</i><br /><i><br /></i><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.uniqueartprints.com/images/IMG_1179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.uniqueartprints.com/images/IMG_1179.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />"It's Poppin' Baby, Can You Feel It?" by Marcus Glenn </td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><br /><i><br /></i><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sanfranciscosentinel.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/03/three-women.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://www.sanfranciscosentinel.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/03/three-women.bmp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />"Three Women Playing Musical Instruments," by Anon. </td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><br /><i><br /></i><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://people.brandeis.edu/~jhale/Art/Picasso/picasso_three_musicians1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="289" src="http://people.brandeis.edu/~jhale/Art/Picasso/picasso_three_musicians1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />"Three Musicians," by Pablo Picasso </td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><br /><i><br /></i><br />At the end of the workshop, they split into groups and I pass out paintings they've never seen. They have to analyze a painting on their own, answering the 5 W's and preparing to act it out. It is theatrical education at its best:<br /><br /><i>Who are they?</i> Characters.<br /><br /><i>What are they doing?</i> Action.<br /><i><br /></i><br /><i>When and where?</i> Setting.<br /><i><br /></i><br /><i>Why?</i> Motivation, style.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Anyways, I'm off to said workshop, to help save a generation from technology, entitlement and ignorance. When I return, I'll have to draw a banana.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0